


an inside thing (don't worry about it)

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Objectification, body image issues, jeff davis and other afflictions, major anxiety, stereobrien, tyler hoechlin's sweaty shirtless torso (for a limited time only)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 62,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No,” Dylan says, feeling the concerned gaze like a touch. “No, it's not—I mean, welcome to my head, I guess. Just, on any given day.” And what, what is this even turning into? Dylan O'Brien therapy hour, that's romantic. Good job.</p><p>“Self-loathing,” Tyler says, and Dylan wants to punch himself in the face. “I don't—I don't think I could find anything to, to loathe about you if my life depended on it.”</p><p>“Thing is,” Dylan says, voice coming out weird and unsteady, “I think that kinda says more about you than me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. actually there would be some touching

"Stiles," Derek says. "Just hit me."

Stiles hits him, just once, catches him on the lip and stares at it, stares at him, at the wide-open look on his face, at his chest rising softly, falling softly, his mouth already healing, how was Stiles ever scared of him? Derek with his arms at his sides, straight-spined, so fucking steady, waiting for Stiles to beat the crap out of him, and Stiles—

Stiles doesn’t.

Stiles reaches up, careful, brushes the still-wet blood from Derek’s lip.

The moment freezes, all sound drops out, all air, all gravity, and Stiles—

 

“I'm not doing that,” Jeff says.

“I think it could be a really sweet scene,” Dylan says. His whole left side is, like, _soaking up_ Tyler's dejection. He doesn't even have to turn around to feel it. It sucks.

“Derek's already in a relationship,” Jeff says.

“Oh, is that what that is?” Tyler says.

“It doesn't have to be—weird, or whatever,” Dylan reasons. “It can just be this really, like, sweet, brotherly—”

“Just this nice, touching moment,” Tyler says.

“I'll think about it,” Jeff says.

 

"This is all your fault," Stiles says, and means it, doesn’t realize how sharp and hot the rage is until he says it, lump lodged high in his throat, eyes stinging, this was the one thing, the one thing that Stiles swore would never happen, this is his  _father_. “You invited her into our lives, you—”

"I know," Derek says, he sounds sorry, he should be fucking sorry, what he fucking—

"I’m sorry," Derek says, and Stiles can’t breathe, and the first punch comes like a gasp

and the others like hyperventilating, Stiles’ arms moving too quickly, fists landing too hard, and Derek isn’t fighting back, why isn’t he fucking  _fighting back_? Stiles’ eyes are burning and his heartbeat is thundering in his ears and his whole body is too small and he’s somewhere outside it and he needs—

He needs Derek to hit him so hard he’s forced back inside himself, needs a blow thumping between his ribs like a second heartbeat, needs his cheek smarting, his lip raw and bleeding, his mouth chafing, he needs—

He’s still hitting Derek when their mouths smash together, his fists still swinging like pendulums, but it sinks in as he drags his head back, breathes cool clear air that’s been missing for too long. Derek’s mouth tastes like metal and mint and salt, the world’s incessant static hum settles under Stiles’ skin, panic and fury cooling into purpose, focus, _clarity_ , and Stiles pulls back, looks at him—

"Oh my god," Jeff says, and the whole scene shatters into Tyler and Dylan, still catching their breath, still just staring.

"Whoa," Dylan says.

"Whoa," Tyler echoes.

They both step back at once, break at once, try to throw it off at once, calm down.

"Okay, let’s reset and go again," the director says, and neither of them says,  _What if you use that take?_  but they’re both thinking it.

The scene doesn’t make it in.

 


	2. it's never going to be like that again

They break up mid-September; it just makes sense. It’s not like this was ever sustainable, like it was ever even a real option. It was stupid, Dylan was stupid thinking it could work.

They don’t see each other for a while, they stop texting. It’s fine. This is being an adult, Dyl, this is real life. Suck it up and move on.

Tyler certainly seems to have. The way Ian goes on about it, he’s practically got a different girl every night. And whatever. Whatever. He can do what he wants, sleep with whoever he wants. It’s none of Dylan’s business.

It wasn’t ever, like, a serious option. Not really. It was a joke, this funny joke, it was bound to blow up in their faces eventually, become weird and awkward and—

But that’s the thing. That’s the thing.

It didn’t.

 

Season four is a little less intense than season three, but maybe that’s just the difference between twelve and twenty-four plus a movie. There are a lot more scenes with Posey this time, there’s a lot more comedy. Somehow Dylan manages to fuck up his knee doing six takes of a simple running scene, but it’s fine. He doesn’t destroy any props, he’s not bleeding, he’ll walk it off eventually. The last take was good, that’s all that matters, he doesn’t have to do it again.

He doesn’t text Tyler to bitch about it, just scans the sides for the next scene and hobbles off to his trailer when he sees it’s a chunk of Malia stuff. There’s a scene with Holland he should probably run through with her at least once, some great stuff with Posey tomorrow.

There’s nothing with Tyler. There’s never anything with Tyler. He’s shooting with JR, with Ian, with Jill; as far as Dylan goes, they might as well be on different shows.

It’s—fine. It’s whatever. This is the job, it’s a job. It’s not supposed to be, like, some kind of wish-granting, choose your own adventure shit. You’re not getting paid crazy amounts of money to screw around with your was-this-ever-even-really-a-thing ex, even if that’s what like the loudest, most dedicated section of fans want to see.

But dedicated doesn't mean ratings, apparently, or—whatever, it's whatever. Someone else is writing the show, Dylan's just doing his bit and trying not to suck at it or mortally wound himself. He can't control what he can't control. And he can't control Tyler, make him talk, so—so fine. All Dylan can do is his job, so he does his job.

He can see girls too, sleep around, do whatever.

Mostly he stays in his trailer until someone drags him out.

 

Mom wants to talk. Dylan has no idea what to say to her, about any of it. It just kind of disappeared, like an optical illusion. Blink and suddenly the picture is so obviously warped you must have been blind not to see it.

“He seemed to really like you,” Mom says.

“Guess he's a better actor than you thought,” Dylan says. Mom's face pinches, and Dylan backtracks. “I just—Can we just—not talk about this? How are you? How's Dad?”

Mom's fine. Dad's fine. Everything's just awesome.

 

By the time he and Tyler actually have a scene, Dylan's so used to the grind he barely notices it. And then he's on set, and there he is, stupidly attractive just talking to Sprayberry, and Dylan can do this. He can be a normal human being for a couple of hours, or do an approximate imitation of one.

“Dylan,” Tyler says, his voice all warm and grinning and exactly like nothing has changed.

“Yo,” Dylan says, raising a couple of fingers in a vague wave before shoving them through his hair. “And lil' Dyl. Hey, buddy!”

“Hey!” Sprayberry says. His eyes still have that bright, shiny, _this is the most fun I've ever had_ sheen. It's kind of nauseating, in a sweet way. “Um, I was just saying, if I like, injure Tyler for real—”

“They didn't tell you? The healing's not an effect,” Dylan says. “Regular Hoech superpower.” He slaps Tyler on the back, grins. “So go nuts.”

“Yeah,” Sprayberry says, looking between them like he's watching something Dylan can't see. Dylan drops his hand from Tyler's side, slides closer to Sprayberry. This time even he catches the way Tyler frowns for a second before his mouth hitches into a smile again.

“So the scene,” Dylan says.

“The scene,” Tyler says agreeably. “Seems pretty straightforward.”

“Yep,” Dylan says.

“How've you been?” Tyler asks, instead of a question Dylan can actually answer, like the meaning of life, or what came before the Big Bang.

“Great,” Dylan lies. “So great. I can actually sleep most days now, so, you know, that's a plus.”

Tyler's brow creases. “You weren't sleeping?”

“That's the job,” Dylan says. “Or something. I got so swamped with work I'm amazed my bed hasn't left me for someone else.”

It comes out weird and pointed, like some kind of accusation, which—Dylan did not want to do that at all. He laughs awkwardly, laughs harder. “Yeah, I don't even know. I think I like, permanently scrambled my brain with all the physical stuff for the movie.”

 _The movie._ Like it's so big Dylan doesn't even have to name it. _Must be my movie, because it sure as hell isn't your movie._ He sounds like a jackass.

“I bet it'll look awesome, though,” Tyler says.

“Hope so,” Dylan says. “It's getting pushed back like a year so they can edit in my eightpack, so it better be worth it.”

“That's not natural?” Tyler asks, raising an eyebrow. “I've been betrayed by the internet.”

“Photoshop,” Dylan agrees. “Just last week it had my mom convinced my eyes were gold.”

“They are kind of golden,” Tyler says, and—and now he's looking right into Dylan's eyes. Chances of survival are just freefalling to hell.

“Nope,” Dylan says, shaking his head. “Just brown.”

“Agree to disagree,” Tyler says amicably.

“Shit brown,” Dylan says.

“Beer bottle,” Tyler says.

Dylan laughs. “Is that better?”

“Like, a brown one,” Tyler says, ears pinking. “Obviously.”

“So— _brown_ ,” Dylan says, spreading his hands wide. “So, I win.”

“But the light bouncing off the glass makes it kind of—” Tyler shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“I think they look kind of hazel,” Sprayberry offers.

“Neat-o,” Dylan says.

 

Tyler never actually technically ended it. He just pulled away, and away, and away, until they were just texting about work, about the _weather_ or something. It tapered off too easily, and then Dylan started scrolling through their texts and realized Tyler hadn't actually written a single thing that couldn't have been written by Posey or Holland in months. And when he finally had some free time, finally had a chance to see Tyler in person, they ate a bunch of pizza and played Mariocart like it was open-heart surgery, and when Dylan dumped the controller in his lap and kissed him, Tyler pulled away and said, “I, uh, maybe we shouldn't—”

And Dylan said, “No, yeah, sure.”

So they're not.

And it's fine.

It's completely fucking fine.

 


	3. how about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hashtag rose is hobrien trash

Maybe the hardest part of being an actor is figuring out how to learn a script you want to throw against the wall. Dylan’s staring down at his sides like the lines’ll change if he keeps reading them, but two hours later it’s the same unflinching fucking—

Rape scene. Dylan has a rape scene.

Of course, Jeff isn’t calling it that. Malia’s feral on white wolfsbane, barely lucid, and Stiles finds her. Cups her jaw, tips his forehead to hers. There’s a line:  _You scared the crap out of me_. Barely breathed against her temple.

She’s woozy, eyes half-lidded. She didn’t have to be—She could’ve been awake, she could’ve been up to it, but  _no_ —That’s not the  _direction_  Jeff wanted to go in. There’ll probably be some slow trance song playing over it, like Stiles is a hero. Like this is all so  _romantic_. And then he’ll kiss her.

And keep kissing her. Then the scene fades out, goes to Scott, and comes back to them after, Malia in Stiles’ arms, his fingers in her hair.

And maybe it could be okay if Stiles wakes up, if he’s ever like,  _Oh my god, you were drugged, I’m a massive rotting turd_ , but Jeff wants Dylan hyping them. At interviews, conventions, name drop Malia! Talk about, what’s the name again, _Stalia_. How freaking psyched he is to be playing this, this half of a  _feminist power couple_ , isn’t it great?

And now all Dylan wants is to talk to Tyler the way they used to, go over the script the way they used to, play it out. Which is impossible, and dumber than dumb, and some drunk and bitter version of himself deleted Tyler’s number from his phone, so—whatever. Stare at the lines, learn the lines, say the fucking lines. Stop pretending to have a spine.

“You scared the crap out of me,” Dylan mutters, and thinks of doing every take achingly slow, of never actually kissing her at all. “You… you scared the crap out of me. Y—you scared the crap…”

It’s an epic waste of time. Dylan can prep for this scene for hours, but there’s no knowing how it’ll meld with what Shelley has in mind.

And Shelley… Shelley is great. Super sweet, super funny. It’s just that doing these scenes makes Dylan’s skin itch, which means he’s a crabby asshole who she can’t wait to get away from. So scheduling extra run-throughs is kinda impossible.

Dylan gives up, throws his script against the wall. It flutters back down incredibly anticlimactically.

 

There's a boom mic hovering just out of frame, and Dylan is seriously considering leaping up and concussing himself rather than attempting one more second of this.

“Here’s a thought,” he offers, shoving a hand through his hair. “Maybe just skip the date rape altogether. Try one take with consent. Whadaya say.”

“It’s a sweet moment,” Jeff says, and some insane, self-harming part of Dylan says,

“No, a sweet moment was that scene Tyler Hoechlin pitched before he realized no one here gives a crap.”

He’s a little stunned at himself, but adrenaline carries him even further.

“What are we actually doing here, huh? Right, it’s a fun show, it’s not hurting anybody. Until it’s actually wrapping up rape like romance—I mean, does no one else here have a problem with that?”

“Everybody take ten,” Jeff says.

The crew scatters. Shelley tactfully steps sideways, don't-mind-me style.

“Dylan," Jeff says. "I've never seen you so out of it. What’s going on?”

“She’s stoned on white wolfsbane,” Dylan says, skipping _I'm fine_ for maybe the first time in his life. “She’s totally out of it. Stiles can’t just—”

“This isn’t about Stiles,” Jeff says. “You’ve been moody for months. You wanna tell me why?”

“They had sex in a mental hospital,” Dylan says, heat crawling up his neck. “Stiles was possessed, and Malia was mentally—what, nine years old?”

“Malia’s sixteen,” Jeff says authoritatively. “She loves Stiles very much. They’re soul mates. She’s wanted him in every scene. I promise.”

“Yeah, well Stiles—”

“Stiles is thrilled to have such a hot girlfriend,” Jeff says. “He loves Malia very much. I’m sorry Tyler dumped you, Dylan, but I need—”

“What did you say?” Dylan’s face heats, his throat closing up.

“I’m sorry you’re having a hard time,” Jeff says, “but Stiles is not you. He loves his girlfriend, Malia Tate. And that’s the scene I need from you.”

“That’s not what—” Dylan says, but everyone’s coming back to set.

 

Apparently no one clued the fans in on the fact that Dylan and Tyler haven't worked together in months; they're still being requested as a duo by conventions. Side by side panel, talking about—what-ifs, and Sterek, and who makes Tyler laugh the most on set, and what character Dylan would play if he wasn't—It's a Halloween costume, where Tyler acts like Dylan ever impressed him, and Dylan pretends to be a normal person who can handle being jerked around like that.

Dylan is inhumanely anxious until he sees him, sees Tyler all warm-eyed, soft smile growing just looking right at him, and all Dylan wants is to—touch him again, breathe him in.

But he can’t, he remembers dully, five seconds too late. Puts his arm between them like a barrier, and Tyler’s hands still on his shoulders, drop like dead things. Tyler nods stiffly, steps back.

Dylan’s throat goes sour, chest tight, but it’s fine. It’s fine.

It has to be.

They take up the mics, and it’s so good to talk to Ty again, Dylan’s sick with regret for letting things go so long. They were friends before—they’re friends. It’s so fucking stupid to lose that.

Dylan curls his hand around the mic, knuckles bleached bloodless. Tyler’s fingers graze his, and Dylan is teaching a masterclass in cool right now, because he should be swallowing his own tongue.

He’s done, Dylan reminds himself. This is just—muscle memory. He’s sleeping with, like, actresses and supermodels now. You’re just some punk kid he sees as a—a little brother, or something.

It’s just too easy to see Ty’s eyes crinkle, his shoulders shake with laughter, feel these little touches, and think it means something. Dylan has to remember this is just how Tyler is with everybody. He does every convention he’s invited to. His eyes do that no matter who he’s looking at.

 _Maybe we shouldn’t_ _—_ _uh,_ Tyler said when Dylan tried to touch him, and no shit. He was probably already fucking gymnasts by then, didn't want to lead Dylan on.

Something catches in Dylan’s chest, drags him down into darkness.

Tyler’s hands find his shoulder, his arm, tapping and pulling back, tapping again. Dylan stares at him, tries to figure him out.

Maybe all Tyler wants is to be friends again. To start hanging out again, talking again.

And that’s—Dylan wants that too. So calm down, calm the fuck  _down_.

But there’s some sharp acid swilling in Dylan’s gut, making it weirdly painful to breathe. And Dylan can’t look at Tyler’s face, he can’t—

He fucking loved this guy, you know? Whatever it was for Tyler, some dumb funny fling, it wasn’t—Dylan’s not like that. He doesn’t just go around fucking people like that. Fucking with people’s heads like that. He can’t even—He still can’t—There hasn’t been anyone else. Not in months, not…It just feels crazy. Talking to someone else like that, trying to find that again, when he still doesn’t know what happened. There’s, like… He’s powerless. With this pressure on his ribs, this tension, this stupid out of control fucking  _mourning_ for this thing that was obviously like ninety percent in his head in the first place.

He bites his lip, scratches at his eye, he’s not... He can’t do this. There’s all these people, and—

“Dylan,” Tyler’s saying, fingers curving over his shoulder, his neck. Dylan feels like throwing up. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Dylan says listlessly, eyes itching. “Don’t even—Don’t, don’t let it concern you.”

“What?” Tyler says, sounding stunned. “I don't— _What?_ ”

And Dylan’s trembling, he’s so sick of this. Throat burning, eyes prickling.

“’s cool,” he says, but his voice sounds—wrong. “I don’t need—I mean, it doesn’t matter. I’m not a fucking—gorgeous blonde actress, right, there’s really—I mean, like, don’t waste your time.”

“Dylan,” Tyler says, and Dylan can hear the frown in his voice without even looking at him. “Let’s, let’s not do this here.”

“Or at all,” Dylan offers. “Whatever. Let’s just spend another nine months wondering what the fuck—” His voice catches, and his eyes light with tears, and it takes a few seconds before he can say, voice tight, “Yeah, let’s not.”

Somehow the panel goes on; somehow Dylan keeps breathing. He doesn’t look up, try to gauge the look on Tyler’s face. He doubts he could stand it. He focuses on the crowd, powers through.

After the panel, Tyler’s fingers find his side, palm spreading over his shirt, but Dylan’s already ice cold, past reactions. Tyler leans in close, says, “I think we should talk. Privately.”

“Nah, I think we’re done talking,” Dylan says. “Why don’t you go talk to some supermodel. If you can stand limiting yourself to just one.”

“You keep saying that,” Tyler says. “Why do you—I don’t know any models.”

“Maybe you should  _get_ to know them,” Dylan suggests. This is dangerous territory, but he’s too prickly to care. “You know, before you sleep with them.”

Tyler rocks back, stunned. “Is that—You think I’m seeing somebody?”

“Just one?” Dylan asks. “No, nope. I think you found the buffet. The full smorgasbord.” All those pictures on Ian's Instagram, Dylan's not stupid. 

“I’m,” Tyler says, still sounding bewildered. “I haven’t—There was one date. Ian thought it would be—” He shakes his head. “I was miserable.”

“Yeah, that’s not what Ian says,” Dylan says tightly.

"God." Tyler lets out a sharp gust of breath. “What’d he say to you? I told him I didn’t—” He shakes his head, lips pursing. “There hasn’t been anybody.” 

“Then what,” Dylan says. “I’m just too much of a spaz to, to bother—” His voice is humiliatingly brittle.

“You’re the one who can’t stand me touching you in public,” Tyler says. “You’re the one who said it was all just a funny joke. Fanservice.”

“No,” Dylan says, suddenly foggy-headed. “No, that wasn’t—I had to say that crap. Tyler doesn’t get it, okay? And I didn’t want things to be weird—”

“Well,” Tyler says, and swallows hard, head dropping suddenly, glaring at the floor.

“What,” Dylan says. “That’s it, that’s why—You could’ve  _told_  me.”

“I tried to,” Tyler says defensively. “You just agreed. So.”

“I didn’t think it mattered what I wanted,” Dylan says. “You made up your mind.”

“No!” Tyler says, frustrated. “I didn’t! I didn’t want to—I just—It wasn’t a joke to me.”

“That’s not what it was,” Dylan says. “It’s just—some people don’t get it—”

“So explain it,” Tyler says. “Or don’t. Don’t—Just don’t,” he says, pleading. “It was never a joke to me.”

“So I screwed up,” Dylan says, clipped. “My bad.” Except it is, and now Dylan feels like a shithole, on top of being a self-sabotaging moron. It's just that he can't work the tension out of his voice.

But Tyler only sighs. Says, quiet, “I hate fighting with you.”

He slings his arm around Dylan’s shoulders. Dylan curls sideways on instinct, rubs his cheek into the hollow of Tyler’s throat.

“We’re okay?” Dylan asks, scared as hell of the answer.

“More than,” Tyler says, all kinds of warm.


	4. past tense

Dylan accidentally insults Tyler in some group interview, trips all over himself to fix it. And Tyler laughs, looks down at nothing and laughs, and that's how Dylan knows he's screwed; because the laughter about their _ship_ , right, that's real and fucking infectious, but when Dylan runs his mouth it's the other kind, the kind that had Dylan's gut twisting like a dying fish, hands finding Hoech's shoulder, trying to fix it with touch alone.

Tyler’s had his dick moments too, grabbing his hand in front of everyone last year, saying _Who knows? With this show it’s 50/50._ In front of everyone, with no warning. But he didn't know, couldn't know why Dylan freaked out like he didn't in the hotel later, _Nothing, man, it's nothing, I'm tired. Aren't you tired?_ Hoechlin at his side like a two hundred pound shiny-coated golden retriever, too eager and easy and accepting of all this crap. People like us together? Awesome, let's give the people what they want. Us, out there, _exposed_ —

Except Tyler's just playing a part, slipping in and out, no sweat, and Dylan's working three levels of subterfuge trying to come off half as casual.

 

Tyler's a Sterek mastermind; that's what nobody else but Dylan seems to see. Jeff, he's, like, completely oblivious to this massive talent under his nose, and if he'd stop fawning over Dylan for three seconds, maybe he'd get that. Not that Dylan's ungrateful; he's freakin' stunned people aren't literally just, like, laughing in his face, but there's... There's this look Tyler gets before he remembers that he has to be fine, this flicker of—oh. Right.

And it makes Dylan want to punch something.

Instead he presses his palm to Tyler's shoulder, his arm, tries to—be Stiles, summon the Derek in him. Which should be the wackiest thing Dylan's ever thought, the most... but it isn't, somehow. Touch is the best thing Dylan has, or it's the first thing he can think to do, his fingers seeking out Tyler's bicep, settling. And Tyler settles too, gets past it, or seems to, just the smallest thrum of dejection all through him.

Dylan writes by thinking out loud, spit-balling and seeing what sticks, and Hoech'll match his frenzied energy, no problem, but his best scenes come after he goes quiet, when he's tentative about it. He'll let himself get excited in the telling, though, his eyes lighting up, gestures growing more and more animated; they both get amped up, just thinking about it.

And then Jeff says, _I'm not doing that_. Two lines in, and Tyler didn't even get to the best part yet, but he's already resetting.

 _No, listen_ , Dylan says, and Jeff listens, and then he writes four episodes where Derek doesn't say a word.

 

After the convention, Tyler’s a magnet at Dylan’s side, so relieved it hurts Dylan to look directly at him. The constant arm around him is a weight, or, like a, like a burden, like a _test_ or something. Dylan can't help freaking out a little bit, wondering what they look like, if it's totally obvious to everybody.

He shouldn't mind, right? Shouldn't give a fuck what people think. But it's hardwired in him to obsess over it, try to—stay, like, publicly neutral. Not make any statements, you know? Not be that guy. That, that token guy who—Because everyone assumes Hoechlin's the one fucking him, in this scenario. That Dylan's the girl, or the bitch, even if that's not how it is, like, at all. He's seen the drawings, okay, Colton is kinda a monster at finding that shit. And that's...

That freaks Dylan the fuck out, to be honest. Seeing that, seeing himself like that. Makes it almost hard to let Ty touch him at all, or, near him at all. And then when Posey asks about it, and Dylan can practically see the wheels turning in his head...

Because that's what Dylan used to think, you know? That this guy was insanely good looking, would probably break his girlfriend in half if he wasn't careful. And he and Posey, they used to laugh about that. How Jeff had to chain him up to contain that much, like, violent sexuality. Season one, it was the most hilarious thing to them. And then there was the pool scene, and Dylan pretty much stopped breathing the pain was so bad, and Tyler grabbed his hand underwater.

After that, it just became more and more obvious. How Dylan wanted to be—more, despite how completely delusional that felt sometimes. Thinking about those jokes with Posey, and just, _looking_ at the guy, are you serious?

But Tyler'd grabbed his hand, and there was—for press, they were press buddies. Because Tyler'd been doing press since he was literally eight, and Dylan was a nervous wreck who said stupid crap like, literally all the time. So doing press together, they looked out for each other, jumped in if the other one was floundering. Or just backed each other up, just—literally, Tyler appeared behind Dylan like a smoke monster and put his hands on Dylan's shoulders, at which point Dylan promptly forgot anything he'd ever coherently thought for like a second and a half; then Dylan found Tyler's shoulder and tried to take a nap on it, despite the camera and mic like six inches away.

And Dylan got used to it, touching Ty all the time, and forgot that was only their little press deal. And just—kept doing it, all the time.

And didn't let stupid things like falling in love with him get in the way.

But now...

Now there's this story out there, this rumor, and pretty much anything Dylan wants to do plays right into it. There's him, and there's his massive fifty foot fucking _shadow_ , and he can't twitch a muscle or that giant him will destroy Japan or something. Will just spiral out of control, unstoppable.

Dylan, he really needs that control. Needs his own life to still be _his_. Not some character, not...

Tyler's arm is warm around his shoulders, and Dylan is starting to sweat.


	5. camera don't lie

Apparently Dylan’s allergic to something in the fake black blood he was supposed to vomit down his shirt. Good news is they got a good shot out of it, real tears in Dylan’s eyes, real panic when he realized he couldn’t breathe. Method acting. Dylan’s a method actor. That’s called  _dedication_.

Tyler’s the biggest sap ever about it, it’s the sweetest thing. He’s shooting in, like,  _Prague_  somewhere, but on Facetime he’s all wide-eyed and concerned, like, Derek-level of tragedy, trying to reach through the phone and feel Dylan’s forehead or something, put a hand on his arm. And Dylan, he’s not made of stone, okay, he can't have Tyler Dereking at him without needing to fix it.

“Hey, can I tell you something?” he says.

“Of course,” Tyler says, serious. His eyes are doing that super intense focused thing that tends to make Dylan go stupid and massively embarrass himself, usually on camera for infinite replay value. Just a Vine of his humiliations looping over and over in his head, but also actually on Vine. And Tumblr.

“Spoiler warning,” Dylan says, as an afterthought.

Tyler blinks at him, and—when did  _blinking_  become attractive? Dylan is so broken.

“The—Not Game of Thrones,” Tyler hedges.

“No, no,” Dylan says hurriedly. He’s not a _monster_ , c’mon _._

“Then—” Tyler’s brows scrunch together. It’s stupidly adorable. Dylan wants to punch himself in the face.

“Teen Wolf,” Dylan says. “La lycanthrope del teen-o. Season—whatever this is.”

“Eight,” Tyler says, which is definitely wrong, but Dylan is pretty sure he’s been purposefully getting it wrong for at least a couple of years now.

“So, Stiles dies,” Dylan says.

Tyler rears back, looking like someone just stole his puppy and socked him in the stomach. “What?”

“In the—the season finale,” Dylan tells him. “He begs Scott to make him a werewolf so he can—His dad’s captured, and, like, tortured. and he’s helpless, and he’s sick of it, so he begs Scott to bite him, and, you know—black blood blues.”

“Your contract’s for another two years,” Tyler says slowly, like he’s trying to decode a complicated string of emojis. “Did you wanna leave?”

“What? No! I don’t know,” Dylan says, shoving a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s—it’ll free me up for other stuff. Right? Whatever. It’s not worth—It is what it is.”

“You’re the best part of the show,” Tyler says, frowning, and Dylan kind of whites out from self-conscious embarrassment for a second.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he says when he can speak again. “I kind of—I got too used to Jeff giving a shit about my opinions, I guess. But they just all suck now.”

“D,” Tyler says, soft.

Dylan shakes his head, says, “No, I’m this—this entitled brat who doesn’t know when to shut up on set. I ripped his writing  _on set_ , Ty. In front of Shelley and Justin and the whole freaking crew. I just—I don't know. I was single, everything was shit. And he gave away your scene, and Stiles turned into this oblivious date rapist—and my whole inner filtration system just—shut down.”

“Talk to him,” Tyler says. “If you don’t wanna leave. Maybe he just figures that was you—asking for an out. He wouldn’t just kill Stiles.” His voice is quiet, but he says  _kill Stiles_  like it’s heresy.

“I got fired,” Dylan says. It’s the first time he’s actually said it. Acknowledged it. Posey tried to talk about it and Dylan brushed him off with some inane bullshit distraction until he gave in and stopped trying. “Like—bridges were burned. I screwed myself.”

“You had a bad day,” Tyler says reasonably. Like a dad comforting his five year old, but also like the five year old. That sure is a weird thought to have about your boyfriend, but there it is. Dylan O'Brien, weirdo prodigy.

“You’re taking one down,” Dylan chooses to say, rather than outing himself as the least dateable person on earth. “You sing a sad song just to turn it around.”

Tyler nearly puts his back out laughing.

 

The first non-workday after Teen Wolf is—well, Dylan only throws up twice, but the ache in his gut stays and stays. Stiles is over. Dylan’s longest-running job is over. Spending hours screwing around with his best friend and picking up a paycheck for it—over.

Dylan bets Stiles’ death kicks off Scott’s darkest storyline yet. Tyler’ll have a real chance to shine, now. That’s good. That’s really good. He deserves it. Scott’s never really been a complicated character. This’ll finally give him something to play with. Grief, and guilt, and loneliness, and finding strength again somehow, because that’s what Scott is about. Maybe he’ll go to college, try to live a normal life, until some mystery monster starts attacking people there and Scott has to step in, be the hero he doesn't dare let himself think he is. Or is that too obvious? Maybe he’ll become the new Derek, saving people who don't trust him, who leave him for dead, and then coming in through Stiles’ window, standing in his room and just soaking in his mistakes, his failures, those last horrible moments.

Dylan’s got some theories, is the point. Some ideas, just percolating. He texts them to Posey offhandedly, feels kind of stupid a little later in the day. Posey’s still shooting with Arden, with Holland, with Sprayberry. Next season probably won’t mention Stiles at all. It’s not like anyone else who left got a lot of story lines based on them. It’s like Derek never existed, like Isaac was sent to live on a really nice farm, don't worry. No, you can’t go visit him.

And whatever, whatever. It’s just a weird thing, keeping this guy in your head since you were eighteen, and rooting for him, really feeling for him, and seeing him just die. What kind of ending is that? He should be going off to college, you know, working through the traumas he’s been through, carving out a life for himself. He’s a good guy, he deserves a happy ending. Deserves _something_. To see his mom, at least, to have her convince him it wasn’t his fault or his responsibility to save her. And fuck, none of this is real or relevant to Dylan's life anymore, but here it is, rattling around in his head like a One Direction chorus.

 _does it ever bother you_ , Dylan texts Tyler. _how derek’s story ended?_

 _Did it really end?_ Tyler replies.  _I think he’d go back home to help Scott & the pack_

 _after stiles dies_ , Dylan sends.

 _Kate came back_ , Tyler says. _Peter. Why not Stiles? Maybe Peter brings him back_

 _and derek doesn't know if he can trust zombie stiles or not,_  Dylan types.

 _But he does_ , Tyler replies. _and he feels responsible for how things turned out_

 _and stiles feels defeated/powerless,_  Dylan taps out.

 _Derek could teach him to fight_ , Tyler offers.  _Train him 1-on-1. They could be a team_

And yeah, yeah, that’s—Dylan can see that, definitely. See it so clear he feels a sharp little pang at how he never got the chance to play the scene. Block it out with Tyler, do all his own stunts like Tyler tries to, and then shoot it, lose himself in the character, feel everything. Stiles has such a dramatic, traumatic life, he feels things on, like, a deeper level. That kiss scene that got cut? That was _insane_. Like, electric, like—almost  _too much_ chemistry. Like, just straddling the line between tripping and overdosing.

What Dylan has with Tyler, it’s different. Sterek is different people. The worst anxieties Dylan’s had are social. Tyler’s never lost anyone. It’s not the same desperation, or the same fear, or—It’s a big thing for them, feeling safe with somebody. It’s a big thing for everyone, trusting someone with their real feelings, but for Stiles, for Derek, it’s literally about safety. Dylan once read this thing, there’s some chemical that’s triggered by near-death experiences, this, like, euphoria, and if someone’s with you through it, if someone saves you, or you save them—like, that just amps up everything you already feel to eleven. And Dylan, he doesn’t have that in his actual life—Thank God, right, he’s not constantly literally running for his life—so he can only ever get to that through Stiles. And now that’s just permanently over. The scripts he gets now, right, even when they’re, like, super funny, or look really epic, the guys he’s playing are so transparent you practically can’t see them at all. There’s, like, no deeper level, nothing under the surface. If they’re mad they’ll probably just say, you know, "I’m really mad right now!" And, like, what inflection do you give that to make it anything more than what it is?

Which all sounds like a bunch of entitled actor crap, doesn’t it. There are probably thousands of actors his age who would kill for what he’s getting handed to him. It’s crazy that he ever forgets that. He’s just been spoiled with Stiles right out of the gate, with getting to play a guy on all these different levels, getting to riff on things, getting his ideas actually considered. He got so used to it he got pissed when all Tyler or Posey ever got was rejection for all their ideas. He forgot how fucking lucky he was.

And he got fired for being a dick on set, tearing down the script on set. That’s insane. His eighteen year old self would probably grab his shoulders and shake him till he was sick.

The regret train pauses briefly while Dylan is sick again.

 _Or Scott could train him_ , Tyler texts.  _Then he actually might win a fight sometimes_

No, no. That’s not—Scott wouldn’t get it. He couldn’t bring Stiles back from his total life fatigue, he wouldn’t get it. He’s too used to succeeding.

And Dylan can’t think how to text that, how to—and he really needs to hear Tyler’s voice right now, not just in his head. See his face.

Stupid, he’s the most stupid—Tyler switches from wide-open and happy to level five concerned when he sees Dylan’s dumb sick-pale face, his sweaty hair.

“Dylan!” he’d said, just before, smiling warm, but now it’s gone. Now it’s just a soft, “What’s going on?”

“I think I ate some bad sushi,” Dylan lies, and then, avoiding Tyler’s gaze, “and uh, you know, I’m kinda... an idiot who sabotaged myself and the only thing I’m good at. So, there's that.”

“You’re good at lots of things,” Tyler says, and a scoff bubbles up in Dylan’s throat and chokes him. “You are. You could have a whole career just doing stand-up. Or getting back with your band.”

The band, God. Dylan wouldn’t even know where to begin restarting those relationships. He feels like a completely different person.

“But you don’t need a fallback,” Tyler says. “You’re one of the most talented actors i know. That’s not over.”

“What if it is,” Dylan says dully. “What if—if it’s you and baseball, if I made a choice and that’s it.”

“I left the show too,” Tyler says, generously not addressing that low blow. “I’m not Jeff’s favorite person either. I’m still working.”

“You didn’t get fired,” Dylan says.

“Didn’t I?” Tyler challenges. “I wasn’t playing Derek anymore. Jeff stopped writing for him. You think he wanted me around?”

“I wanted you around,” Dylan says. “Your ideas. He should’ve—”

And there Dylan goes again, so used to having won the lottery that he’s lobbying for everyone else to win it too. As if writing isn’t hard enough without the whole cast turning co-writer.

“We should write something,” Dylan decides suddenly. “Together.”

“Put it on YouTube?” Tyler suggests. Dylan face-palms, cheeks flaming.

 _"No_ ,” he says, trying to remember how normal human beings speak. “Actually try to get it made. Like Good Will Hunting or something. A real movie.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

“You were saying you wanted to write anyway,” Dylan says.

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “We can—yeah. Yeah, definitely.” He’s getting excited, slowly, Dylan can see it; it’s making him want to kiss him, or just put an arm around him, lean close.

“I wanna see you,” Dylan says, something thick in his throat. “Like—not through a phone.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “I have—You wanna see Vienna?”

“If you’re there,” Dylan says, like he’s in The Notebook or something.

Tyler blushes bright.


	6. gonna be a massive movie star

“You're really back with him?” Brittany says. Tyler swallows a small sigh.

She's got him sprawled on her couch, his guard down, thinking about nothing more than how much of a workout it'll take to combat the meal he just had, but of course she was planning this since she called, said, “I feel like I never see you,” and his gut twisted in a knot.

Her Twitter feed must've lit up with those JustJared pictures of him and Dylan in the airport: Dylan's pillow tucked under Tyler's arm while Dylan signs the edge of someone's in-flight magazine. Dylan leaning close to take it, and this one shot that looks like they're about to kiss.

But they weren't. They don't do that kind of thing in front of cameras, or fans. Or anyone. Dylan's not ready to be that guy.

“I never wanted to break up with him,” Tyler reasons. Just the thought of it makes his stomach clench a little bit. “The whole thing was a misunderstanding.”

“Like how you're his dirty little secret?” Brittany says. Tyler rubs his eyes and wonders what it feels like to have a sort-of ex who doesn't think she's your therapist. “You deserve better than that.”

“I don't _deserve_ anything,” Tyler says, scratching at his beard. “He's not ready.”

“ _You're_ ready,” Brittany says, like that's all that matters. “You've got more to lose than he does. He already established himself as an actor.”

Tyler raises his eyebrows, tries not to let that sting.

“He carried a major action franchise,” Brittany says, not even a little defensive. “That's the lie, isn't it? Gay guys can't play heroes? Well he already made millions at it. He's got nothing to prove anymore.”

“That's not why,” Tyler says. He sits up straight, tries to snap into interview mode. He can do this. “And it doesn't—I don't care.”

“You told me you were gonna talk to him about it,” Brittany says. “You sat on this couch and drank my wine and _told_ me you were gonna stand up for yourself.”

“I was under the influence,” Tyler says. Brittany rolls her eyes. “Your influence,” Tyler says, only a little crabbily. “And then I had the most miserable year of my life.”

“So what, you're back to being a doormat?” Brittany challenges.

“I'm happy,” Tyler says. Shouldn't that be enough? Dylan's enough, what they have is enough. More than enough. You ask for too much, you lose what you have. Who needs that?

“You're lying to yourself,” Brittany says. “You're letting him turn you into a liar because you're scared of what he'll do if you don't follow his rules. That's not a healthy relationship.”

“You dated a heroin addict,” Tyler feels the need to point out. He really feels like he got her there, nods just a little to himself, until she says,

“ _Recovering_ heroin addict.”

“Yeah, _now_ ,” Tyler says, trying to gain back a little leverage in this conversation. “Because he's 'following your rules.'”

“Yeah, and unlike him? You don't need fixing,” Brittany says. “You're perfect the way you are. Open. Honest. _Real_.”

“Really,” Tyler says flatly. He's done, he's just done trying to explain himself to her. “You're accusing me of being fake—”

“Right now,” Brittany says. “What would you say, right now, if you were asked about him in an interview.”

“That he's always there,” Tyler says, then, ears heating, “What do you want me to say. It's nobody else's business what I—”

“Yeah, that's not your line,” Brittany says. “That's never been your line. That's his.”

“I don't need you to like him,” Tyler says. Just for this, Tyler is going to steal all of her wine. Put a ransom note on Instagram.

“Oh, I like him,” Brittany says. “He's smart and funny and cute as a button. But he has no right to barricade you back in the closet with him. You really wanna be thirty and still living a lie?”

 

Tyler has no plans to freak out about turning twenty-nine. He's got a good life. A job he loves, friends on every continent, money to travel; he's healthy, in good shape; his family's healthy. He's dating the guy he's in love with, the guy who, despite almost a year of thinking otherwise, loves him too. He's got nothing to complain about.

He's writing a movie with Dylan O'Brien. Who else gets to say that?

Not that he's gotten a lot done in that direction. He has some ideas, a couple of thoughts in his Notes app, a handful of texts to Dylan, nothing serious. He's not tied down to any theme yet; he just wants it to be something he can be proud of. And it will be, with Dylan attached, but he doesn't—that shouldn't be why. He needs to bring something to it, something only he could've brought to it.

He's just drawing a blank on what exactly that looks like.

 

Two weeks back from their trip, Dylan makes the last round of auditions for the leading man in Terminal, based on the best-selling novel about just-separated high school sweethearts who find out their son only has a few months left to live. It's expected to make blockbuster returns on an indie budget; Felicity Jones is already signed on as the mother, Jacob Tremblay as the son. Dylan's never been more nervous.

“This is it,” he says. Tyler can hear him pacing, never a good sign. “This is the one. This guy, he's a thousand things at once, and it all fits together.”

“It sounds incredible,” Tyler says. It does. He read the book when Dylan went out for the first audition, cried so hard he used it to get there shooting the darkest scene in Harvest. Which is—yeah, it's a horror movie. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't give it your best.

“Can I—” Dylan stops pacing. “It's stupid, I just thought—”

“What,” Tyler says. It's never stupid. Dylan's the first one to dismiss his ideas, or play them down. Tyler honestly doesn't get how he can doubt himself like that. Doesn't get why he'd ever need Tyler reassuring him about what feels like the most obvious thing in the world.

“I mean, you'd have to play the mom,” Dylan says, half-laughing, and Tyler says, “You want me to read with you?”

“If you—I mean, if it's not—” Dylan stops. “You mind?”

“Are you kidding?” Tyler says. Does he _mind_. It's like Dylan doesn't know him at all.

“I don't have the full script,” Dylan says, apologetic, like Tyler's gonna take back his offer. “I just—I really want this one.”

Two hours later, Tyler's on a plane.

 

They're changing the title of Tyler’s baseball movie again, pushing it back again. That's always a red flag, a sign the studio isn't really behind it like they used to be.

“They pushed back Maze Runner,” Dylan points out, but that wasn't—that's different. That needed to be perfect, needed special effects, and—Tyler's movie isn't anything like that.

All that really means is Ty's got some more free time than he anticipated. Can't complain about that. Dylan's seriously on edge prepping for Terminal, but it's good to be near him. It's really good to read with him; feels like they used to, but—more.

“You're a lifesaver,” Dylan says, after, touches his arm and draws him in, and Tyler doesn't know what he did in a past life to be this lucky.

 

Tyler comes this close to flubbing the name of his own movie at the, yeah, the premiere of his own movie. It's fine; there's no major media coverage, he's not sure anyone noticed. He comes back strong, talking about what this movie means to him, about being part of a team, and how weird it is when you suddenly—aren't. Pulls back, doesn't get too personal, just enough to satisfy the woman interviewing him. There's—he doesn't think about it a lot, tries not to think about it a lot. He made a good choice, has no complaints how things turned out, but there's still something there, sometimes—some nostalgia, maybe, some... something almost sad, without ever really getting there. Acting was always the more solid option, the one he knew he could do for a long time. And he's not gonna lose it all on an injury, or a couple of bad games, and...

And he doesn't have to hide anything. Which—It was never the main reason on the list, but it was on the list. Maybe the world's finally ready for someone like him in baseball, but he's never been one to make waves. There are other people, smarter people, who know the history and the language like Dylan knows Mets stats. Tyler's not—he doesn't like debating politics, or religion; his motto is live and let live. Colton's got all kinds of strong opinions, and Tyler respects that, he does. It's just not who he his.

He was never gonna be the first one out, but he wasn't looking forward to hiding, either. Brittany knows that, she knows—she was the first one who knew anything about it. She's always been protective of him, but after that—Tyler drunk and more lost than he usually lets himself be, frozen deciding—it's like she became his personal gay activist. And he's lucky to have had that, that support; there are plenty of people who don't. He's not oblivious to that. It's just—a little much, sometimes.

“Maybe I'd become a baseball player,” Dylan joked in some interview—what would you do if you weren't acting. “I don't know. I'd be a director, like my dad.” And maybe it's something like that, not wanting to amputate your options. Not feel like you're suddenly backed into a corner in peoples' perceptions. This role in Terminal, Dylan's desperate to play it because Micah's a thousand things at once. He just doesn't wanna get put in his own special category.

Tyler, he can understand that. He doesn't wanna hijack that. He doesn't—it kills him to see Dylan miserable, sick with anxiety. That's the last thing he wants to do.

You can't always get what you want, and that's fine. Tyler already has all he could ask for.

 

Tyler's just back from the gym when Dylan calls. FaceTime, he gets to see Dylan's face; he accepts before he even realizes he's doing it.

Dylan lets out a gust of relief, closes his eyes. Then he opens them wide again, croaks, “I'm freaking out.”

“You're gonna be amazing,” Tyler says, and doesn't even feel stupid about it. He used to, used to think—are you serious? You have to know that already. You can't honestly see and hear everything I’m seeing and hearing and still think you're doing a terrible job. This, this is manipulative.

But it isn't. Dylan really doesn't let it sink in, the compliments, the constant praise he's showered with, he thinks it's a joke. Or completely out of touch, or empty flattery.

“Yeah, no,” Dylan says. There are tears in his eyes; Tyler's gut clenches. “So I uh, I just ran out of the audition room? Because I'm like—I'm just _sucking_ today. No,” he says, before Tyler can open his mouth. “You didn't see their faces. Like, 'who is this guy again? How the fuck did he even make it into consideration?'”

“I can guarantee that's not what they were thinking,” Tyler says, and Dylan lets out a stomach-twisting sound and says, “Fuck, you're so _nice_.”

“I'm not being _nice_ ,” Tyler says, annoyed. “I read with you. You were amazing.”

“Yeah, _then_ ,” Dylan says. “With you.”

“So it's just—nerves,” Tyler tries. “Why don't you just go back in, try—”

“No, I can't,” Dylan says. “I'm—Oh my god, I wanna kill myself.”

“Dylan,” Tyler says, carefully not alarmed. He's not—he says things like that, it just means—he's freaking out, getting mad at himself. “I'm—I'm in town, I'll come pick you up.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, eyes widening with relief. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah. Come.”

 

Clearly Tyler is on a mission from God: there's only the thinnest layer of traffic. What should be an hour's drive on any normal day takes less than fifteen minutes. He finds easy parking, too; life is full of miracles. He calls Dylan back on his way to the door, finds him hunched on the back stairs, just breathing, eases a hand on his shoulder.

“Shit,” Dylan says, near-jumping out of his skin, but his whole body sags when he sees Tyler. “Shit, shit, fucking _shit_. What am I—Why did I think I could do this?”

“Don't,” Tyler says, sitting by him. “This is crazy. You're incredible. You're the only one who doesn't get that.”

“I'm a fucking headcase,” Dylan says.

“You're...” Tyler says, and can't resist. “You're insecure,” he says, fighting not to smirk. “Don't know what for.”

“Oh my god, really?” Dylan says, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “I hate you.”

“Weird way of showing it,” Tyler says, and leans into the contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♪ baby you light up my world like nobody else ♫


	7. world, shut your mouth

“What? No way,” Dylan says, when his agent tells him that actually, he didn't blow it until he ran out of the room.

“They liked what they saw,” Susan says. “They're just concerned about being able to depend on you.”

“Shit,” Dylan says, face going hot, eyes stinging. “That's—shit. I really, I really thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Susan says. There's no judgment there. It's just a matter of fact to her that Dylan's an unreliable spaz. “But it doesn't matter. This happened with Teen Wolf too, remember? You didn't like your first take, but you were honest with them, and they gave you another shot.”

“Yeah, that was—” Dylan says, mortified. “I was a little punk kid, I didn't know anything. I never even considered, like, what their time was worth.”

Even Tyler gets exasperated, like, stop undermining yourself all the time. But Susan's unflappable.

“You took a chance,” she says, too patiently. “It got you your most substantial job yet. Maybe there's something to learn from that.”

 

“Right,” Dylan says, latching on to Tyler's arm before he fully steps into his apartment. Tyler's eyebrows jump, but he lets Dylan lead him to his laptop, sit him down on the couch. “So.”

“So,” Tyler says, a little bemused grin playing around his lips. Dylan scrapes his hand down his face, says, “I can't even look at you, man,” and plops down next to him, kisses his dumb impossibly attractive mouth. “No, no,” he says, eventually, pulling away, shoving his fingers through his hair. “What I was—I was _gonna_ say, I'm not giving up on Terminal.”

“That's great,” Tyler says warmly. “They're gonna love you.”

“No, that's just it,” Dylan says, flipping the laptop open and adjusting the camera. “I'm not doing it alone.”

 

They get it in one take, do a second for security. Tyler really commits, every time, the camera and the pressure just completely falling away when Dylan plays off him. It's not even distracting that Tyler's the mom. He really taps into something there, this impossible vulnerability and strength at the same time. This really bittersweet, subtle regret of everything that happened going the way that it did, and what could have been, and this sense of finality that shakes something in Dylan loose, has the tears coming without half the run-up it usually takes.

After, it's a few minutes before Dylan can get himself together, and this quiet sense of loss sticks around even when Tyler's right there, laughing at some offhand, half-serious comment of Dylan's like it's the funniest thing in the world. Dylan looks at him for a microsecond before he laughs back, before he thinks, _Yeah, I guess that was kind of funny, actually_. Dylan would get such a massive head if the only feedback he listened to was Tyler's. Then he'd be even more unbearable, this wunderkind actor buying into his own press, it's ridiculous.

It's not like Dylan doesn't know he's funny: he can be funny. Or pull off a good dramatic scene, or whatever it is. He's not doing this job because he thinks he's crap at it and he's trying to humiliate himself. It's just that he's—Susan's right, he's unreliable. It's just that sometimes he can hit all his marks, really disappear into a character, or charm a room full of strangers with some rapid-fire banter, and sometimes he's just off, out of it, and can't find that sweet spot, can't believe his own acting. He knows when he sucks, okay, he knows what it feels like when a scene isn't working as well as it could. If he wasn't critical, he'd just be phoning it in, and that's not the career he wants to have. Even if the movie bombs, if the only people who see it are Dylan and the director, or it dies on the cutting room floor, he still wants his performance to be the best he can do. That audition, he knows he wasn't terrible. It wasn't cringingly bad. But it wasn't this, how it was with Tyler, how it should've been. It was just okay, and that's not anywhere near good enough.

But he shouldn't have run. Dylan knows that that was a bad move. And it's not like he can just go back and try again; it's way too late for that. They're not gonna wanna hear from him anymore.

Dylan swore he was done making YouTube videos years ago, and he is. They're little jokey things he did as a kid, things that get more and more embarrassing every time some serious actor mentions them, like that dopey little kid humping a Christmas tree is what Stanley Tucci thinks of when he thinks “Dylan O'Brien.” But they're also the only reason Dylan even got Stiles in the first place, so... maybe this isn't the craziest idea Dylan's ever had.

The studio's not gonna listen to Dylan on his own, but—he's read stories, ballsy moves actors and writers made, releasing stuff on their own, and working up such a big buzz the studio can't ignore it. Look at, look at Deadpool, right now. That test clip blew up, and now Ryan Reynolds is getting a chance to play a costumed guy who doesn't suck. If he would've gone to the studio and, like, knocked politely on the door? That never would've happened.

Dylan honestly doesn't remember his YouTube password anymore, and he hasn't checked that email address since, like, 2009. It's a little bit daunting. Honestly, all of this is probably a can of worms he's been smart to avoid as much as possible until now. He doesn't need to read the comments on a sketch he wrote, if you could even call it that, when he was practically pre-pubescent. That's just feeding the worst parts of your brain enough ammo to put you permanently out of commission. What? No, I don't need to look anyone in the eye ever again. Why do you ask?

But Dylan wouldn't have any of this if he was too chickenshit to take a risk. Right? That's just what he has to remember, and focus on. This project, this character, and really getting to dive into someone's life again, without getting on his knees in front of Jeff Davis and fucking blowing him.

And this video, these two takes with Tyler, Dylan knows those are good. Production value isn't exactly up there, but that's not the point. It's a read-through, not a trailer. If Dylan posts this, sends this off into the abyss of the internet, he'll have no regrets about it, whatever happens.

“Ready to be a YouTube star?” he asks Tyler, when he finally recovers his password and logs in. He's ridiculously nervous, fingers tingling numb.

“I don't know,” Tyler says, fighting to keep a straight face. “Any advice?”

“Don't look back,” Dylan says, and sends the video out into the world.

 

The problem with trying to figure out if your insane risk is picking up the right type of buzz without actually daring to look at the notifications is that it's impossible. It's just not possible. And Dylan, he has impulse control issues, like how he's fidgeting so bad Tyler's vibrating next to him. On second thought, this was a terrible, insane idea, and he's gonna get sued for everything he's got and more for leaking entire major scenes of Terminal on a whim. People have been fired after scripts were dug out of their _trash_ , much less... And that doesn't even make sense. Shouldn't it be “much more”? And fuck, what if Dylan just detonated his whole career? What if he did, shit, and what if Tyler being in it destroys his life too? Holy crap, Dylan's a monster. He's just, he just _completely_ —

“I didn't have to say yes,” Tyler says, palms warm and steady over Dylan's jittering shoulder, his ribs. “I took the risk with you. I'm not worried.”

Dylan thumps his head back against the couch, closes his eyes, and moans. He's gonna be responsible for ruining Tyler's life. The guy chose acting over baseball even though he really fucking _loves_ baseball, which can only mean he really, really fucking loves acting. And Dylan's gonna get him blacklisted. This is literally the worst decision Dylan's ever made, like, in any life he ever may have lived.

“I'm not worried,” Tyler says soothingly. “Being blacklisted with you? There are worse things.”

“How do you _function_ ,” Dylan mutters. How is Tyler Hoechlin even a real _person_ , how do you even comprehend the ability of such a person to _exist_.

“What's that even mean?” Tyler asks, laughing, but there's a little frown at the end of it, brows drawing together, and Dylan rushes to say,

“Just—How are you so _chill_ ,” scratching the back of his neck, wishing he'd never said anything. “Like, nothing fazes you. Ever.”

“I don't know if that's true,” Tyler says, and Dylan waves his hands a little frantically, tries to wave his stupid comment away.

“No, no, I'm saying, it's cool,” Dylan says. “Like—admirable.”

“I'm a real person,” Tyler says. “I'm not—Just because I don't think about everything that bothers me until I'm actually sick over it doesn't mean I'm faking.”

“I didn't say that,” Dylan says desperately.

“Brittany thinks I'm living a lie,” Tyler says, almost to himself. “I'm not living a lie. It isn't lying to try to be happy.”

“Tyler,” Dylan says, stomach twisting. “That's not—It was just this stupid, this offhand—”

“But you meant it,” Tyler says. “Didn't you?”

“Not like you're taking it,” Dylan says. “Not—Dude, why do you think I love you? If I think it's just some, some persona. I _don't_.”

Tyler looks at him so intently a flush creeps up Dylan's skin.

“What,” Dylan says, stupidly self conscious. “What, is that surprising? Wow, Dylan's got feelings. Someone tell People magazine.”

“Could've told me,” Tyler says quietly.

“I could've—You really didn't know,” Dylan says, skeptical. “We talked about this. I've been obsessed with you forever.”

“Yeah, with my—” Tyler's ears are pink. “My _physique_.”

“Shut up, [that letter](http://fuckyestylerhoechlin.tumblr.com/post/44309386478/dear-tyler-hoechlin-your-sweaty-shirtless-torso) was hilarious,” Dylan says. “That's not—We've had actual conversations.”

“When?” Tyler says.

“In my head, apparently,” Dylan says. He lets out a little exasperated huff. “It's not like—You didn't say it to me either.”

“I thought you were afraid of it,” Tyler says. “This being—real. Being that guy.” He swallows a little thickly, says, “I didn't wanna—pressure you into—”

“What, being happy?” Dylan says.

“Would you be?” Tyler says. “With people knowing, or, or thinking they knew.”

“Screw people,” Dylan says tightly. He's watching Tyler's throat, how his swallows are all wrong, like he's choking on something. It makes Dylan feel like he's drowning, like he's the worst person in the world. “I don't... Whatever, it doesn't matter. You can teach me not to care.”

“I told Brittany I'm happy,” Tyler says. “How things are. I wasn't lying. You don't need...”

“Yeah, shut up,” Dylan says, grabbing at his phone and tapping through to Twitter.

Tyler stares at him. Swallows again, and Dylan finds what he's looking for, sends off a response, and shoves the phone into Tyler's hands.

“I don't—What is this?”

“Just read it,” Dylan says, and watches him, watches Tyler's eyes widen after a long, tense second.

“You didn't have to do that,” Tyler says, sounding stunned.

“I don't like being a liar either,” Dylan says, and takes his hand. “Hope you're camera-ready.”

 

 **crying over sterek**  @Pandarap316: _@dylanobrien Spotted @TylerHoechlin playing the wifey in your @TerminalTheMovie audition video. Art imitating life?_

 **Dylan O'Brien** @dylanobrien: _@Pandarap316 If you dismiss out the marriage, child, divorce and gender—yes :)_

 


	8. plot twist

“You were joking,” Susan says. “Playing along. Trying to make the buzz around your video bigger.”

“Um, no,” Dylan says. “What?”

“It was clever,” Susan says. “I monitor your Twitter, but I can't see your replies unless I'm looking for them. So that yes spread to Tumblr, and from there back to Twitter, where it trended. Hashtag #sterekbecausehobrien.”

“That doesn't even sound like real words,” Dylan points out. Susan sighs.

“This isn't just your career we're talking about. Tyler's manager agrees—”

“You talked to Tyler's manager?” Dylan asks, a little, like—outraged. “This isn't a PR thing.”

“ _Everything_ is a PR thing,” Susan says. “Your clothes, your hair—”

“Your pose, your stare, the things you think,” Dylan suggests. “Your underwear.”

“That's funny,” Susan says. “But it's also true. Everything you do makes an impression. And that impression decides the kinds of roles you get, and how frequently.”

“Funny, and I thought that was about talent,” Dylan says. “So what. Dump him, declare myself asexual—”

“God, no,” Susan says. “It was a joke. You were joking. Giving the fans what they—”

“Or I could just shit in his mouth,” Dylan suggests. “Say, 'this is what you deserve. Who's my little bitch? My secret, dirty little bitch.' How's that.”

“Dylan,” Susan says, refusing to rise to the bait.

“You know, I already tried the lying thing,” Dylan says, weirdly on edge. “I'm kind of over it.”

“So don't lie,” Susan says. “Just—don't advertise it, either.”

“Cross the street when I see a camera,” Dylan says, nodding. “'Who, him? I don't know him.' Or, or shove him into oncoming traffic, what, who was _that_ guy? Almost put his arm around me, what an _asshole_.”

“You're friends,” Susan says calmly. “You're a tactile person. He's a tactile person.” She stops, says, “Tyler Posey is a tactile person.”

“Operation: Grab Tyler's Ass,” Dylan confirms. “Got it.”

“I'm not asking you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” Susan says. “I've seen the two of you. You won't be lying.”

“Why even wait for a camera,” Dylan agrees. “We should just make a sex tape. Cut out the middle man. We'll call it—” He puts his hands together, brackets them into a title card, and pulls away. “ _No Homo_.”

“Sooner or later,” Susan says, after a silence so long Dylan almost thinks the call dropped out, “you're going to realize how lucky you are in this moment. Right now? You still have a choice.”

And here's the thing, here's the thing: she's right.

Just not the way she means to be.

 

Here's something Dylan should've done a thousand years ago: taken Tyler on a date. There's this really small pop-up screening of Amélie, practically private, and popcorn with extra butter, because torturing Tyler about his diet will never stop being hilarious. Tyler watches the movie really intently, and Dylan watches Tyler; he's already seen the movie a couple of times, but Tyler'd never even heard of it, and he's a freaking masterpiece of a person, okay, Dylan does not need to justify staring at him. No, not—not literally _staring_ , no; Dylan's blinking at all the regular intervals, coming back to the screen every so often, or flicking popcorn at Tyler's ridiculously serious face, which also doubles as an excellent test of his illogical fondness for everything Dylan, because his head whips around, but as soon as he identifies the culprit his shoulders go easy again, and he laughs, leans into Dylan's space, and Dylan did not sign up to feel this many _things_. His shriveled little introvert heart can only handle so much sweetness at once before it just—explodes, like an over-blown balloon.

Then he takes Tyler to dinner, _what_ , like he's an _adult_. Tyler orders in French, (just to screw with him, all straight-faced and nonchalant, like Dylan doesn't see exactly what he's doing. Tyler is such a smug asshole sometimes. Dylan is so on to him) and Dylan attempts to decode the hidden meanings of the wine list, like—there's gotta be a formula, he could totally figure it out given a little more time. That's what he should have been doing today: Googling this restaurant, and familiarizing himself with everything beforehand. That was the plan, but then artfully messing up his hair ate up too much time, and then he realized he had no actual date clothes? Like, old t-shirts, no, some fucking—awards show suit, definitely no, Scott's black-blood soaked red hoodie Dylan accidentally stole from set by forgetting to take it off-slash-ever return it, probably not, but on second thought: maybe. Dylan doesn't have a clue about fashion. Maybe it'd be, like, making a statement.

He panicked, called Colton, who just smirked at him for an endless amount of time and then picked three things out of Dylan's closet that he didn't even know were in there, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and not a blatant display of black magic, are you _serious_. Dylan spent most of his life being a little kid, and then a teenage boy, and then an actor: he's never really gotten the hang of dressing himself. There always seems to be someone standing around with a stack of suggestions, and Dylan just goes, “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah, that's nice,” and then someone else puts the exact right amount of gel in his hair while he falls asleep in front of the mirror, so when he tries to replicate it at home, he ends up squinting at his reflection with sticky hands and guessing.

Meanwhile, Tyler's beard looks like it was precisely chiseled by freaking Michelangelo. Dylan gives up, he really does.

Tyler's hand reaches out across the table, fingers brushing Dylan's knuckles, his wrist, and Dylan's nicely tipsy, close to tears for no reason at all, something weird and out of control bubbling in his gut, up his throat, impossible to swallow down.

Because this is—so fucking nice, every part of it. Tyler is _so fucking nice_. And perfect, and Dylan's a crazy person, who thought he didn't want this. Who thought—sure, let's just—hide you in a corner somewhere, no one has to know our business, and Tyler was like, If—if that's what you want, yeah. Yeah, okay.

And Dylan was like, what, he's just a brotherly, just this sweet, like, mentor, like a, like a father figure to me—no butt-fucking, you know? I just wanna clarify: this butt goes untouched. Right, Ty? Right. Cool, fun talk. Always a pleasure to lie directly to your face. What a hilarious fucking joke that would be, me and him—me and _him_? Ha! I'm laughing, this is _mirth-inducing_. Humor, we are producing top-quality humor right here.

And Tyler was like, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, it's worth it. Dating this asshole when any sane person would do a better job not shoving a massive gag order dick down his throat, totally worth it. Because—because Dylan's funny, sometimes. So, you know—worth it. No regrets.

It's not lying, trying to be happy, but that doesn't mean Tyler wasn't fucking miserable.

And Dylan did that.

Terrific.

They're just walking now, Tyler's fingers knit through Dylan's but slipping away, and Dylan lurches, looks at him, and it takes a minute to register the arm around him instead, and this, this—Getting drunk was not the plan. Getting drunk, that's like, grounds for dismissal, right there. Objection, sustained, what are you _doing_. You're going to mess this up, it's frankly incredible you _haven't_ messed this up beyond any hope of recovery just by virtue of existing in your natural state.

“I like this,” Tyler says, like he's on an entirely different date with someone who isn't aggressively sabotaging everything. He's looking at the blue bruised sky, the glaring streetlights, the crawling LA traffic, and seeing some kind of Instagram photo. Maybe Dylan looks different to him too: lit up, soft and glowing. What a weird fucking thought.

“I like you,” Tyler says. “Being with you.”

Like it's that simple, like that's the only thing in his head right now: Dylan, and fondness. Dylan can't even do that high.

“How do you, like,” Dylan says, and he'll probably regret this when he's sober, but, “focus. On—” He shakes his head, laughs a beat, nervous.

“On?” Tyler says.

“How do you,” Dylan says, and then he blurts out, “happy, try to be—How does it work.” And that's not—that's not even _English_. “I mean, just being happy. Without getting distracted, you know?”

“I don't know,” Tyler says, considering this. “Like—now? What would I be distracted by?”

“Um,” Dylan says, stumped, and then he says, “self loathing, mostly. With just like a side of random minutiae-fed anxiety.”

“Now?” Tyler says, and his arm hooks closer around Dylan's shoulders. “What's going on?”

“No,” Dylan says, feeling the concerned gaze like a touch. “No, it's not—I mean, welcome to my head, I guess. Just, on any given day.” And what, what is this even turning into? Dylan O'Brien therapy hour, that's romantic. Good job.

“Self-loathing,” Tyler says, and Dylan wants to punch himself in the face. “I don't—I don't think I could find anything to, to loathe about you if my life depended on it.”

“Thing is,” Dylan says, voice coming out weird and unsteady, “I think that kinda says more about you than me.” This gross sharp wet breath, and this wasn't—None of this was the plan.

“Really,” Tyler says. “Lemme just—I'll just call in some backup, if you don't mind.”

“Backup,” Dylan says, anxiety shooting up to eleven. “That's—What are you doing?”

“'Held at gunpoint,'” Tyler pretends to read off his phone. “'Need three reasons to loathe Dylan and they'll let me go.' Let's see what the people think.”

“Don't you dare,” Dylan says fervently.

Tyler looks at him, pockets his phone. “I wouldn't,” he says. “I'm just—making a point.”

“Is the point, 'I can totally make Dylan shit himself'?” Dylan asks. “Because, if so—Congratulations.”

“I'm serious,” Tyler says. “People love you. They're not all in denial, or missing something.”

“ _People_ don't know me,” Dylan says, unimpressed. “Who even are _people_. And this isn't, like, a logic thing. I know that.”

“It isn't,” Tyler says.

“Mostly,” Dylan says. “Probably. Whatever, this isn't—You don't need to set up an, an intervention. I'm not looking at methods, I'm fine.”

“Methods,” Tyler says.

Dylan makes a vague noose-yanking gesture, rolls his eyes. “Okay? Awesome. Glad we had this talk.” He lets out a huff, scrubs his hand over his face. “Really set a mood, you know. I bet you've never been more aroused.”

“Dylan,” Tyler says, exasperated, but he's smiling despite himself, like he can't help it, like he's just so fucking _charmed_ by Dylan, all the time.

Well, Dylan'll take this out, absolutely.

“You are, aren't you,” he says, mock-accusingly. “I really hit on something there. Emotional intimacy gets you in the _mood_.”

“You're ridiculous,” Tyler says, but he's not laughing.

 

It's weird, not working: like, unnerving. Dylan doesn't know what to do with himself. This time last year Dylan's schedule was so jam-packed he was falling asleep in the shower. Now he's in his empty apartment, marathoning Transparent, hair an ungelled mess, pants optional. Which isn't entirely terrible. It's a good show, and it's cool to actually have time to watch something he isn't in, something where his performance isn't a factor. It's just that two episodes from now he'll have to find another show, or start counting his eyelashes for fun, because Tyler's off shooting the role of Hot Something, always an underrated performance, and Posey's busy with Teen Wolf, and also, Dylan accidentally started blowing him off after his grand death scene-slash-panic attack, and now he doesn't know how to stop.

He doesn't want a pity party, and he doesn't want to be around Posey if he's gonna be moody and weird, and, like, passive-aggressive without even meaning to. Posey doesn't need that kind of negativity. Last time they got high Dylan was freshly dumped and completely nihilistic in the worst way, and Dylan's not looking to replicate the experience. Hoechlin's so chill, he can handle anything Dylan throws at him, but Posey, Posey's—suggestible. And he's got bigger stuff than Dylan ever did to fixate on, if he's gonna fixate on something. Dylan, he's an asshole, but he's not that much of an asshole. Some people are just better off not thinking. Dylan'd be the first to check that box, if he could. He's not tipping anyone else into his head space if he can avoid it.

He's rewatching what. on Netflix when he gets a text from Alex Saxon, which just says,

_Congratulations, man_

For a few seconds he doesn't even know what he's looking at, and then he's still pretty sure he doesn't know what he's looking at, even with the second text, the third:

_You're gonna be great_

_Stiles is awesome_

Even with his heart suddenly pounding out of control. He hesitates, texts back, _whaat??_

 _Micah_ , Alex replies. _It was you or me right? Well it's not me_

Which—that's insane, that means Dylan's last-ditch YouTube audition risk actually _worked_.

 _you'll get the next one_ , he texts with fumbling fingers. He can't, he still can't completely believe it. Aside from anything else, he knows for a fact that Alex did better than he did in the chemistry test with Felicity.

 _Definitely_ , Alex sends back, and Dylan feels kind of bad for a minute. Alex is a good guy, easy to hang with, and he wanted this as bad as Dylan does. They're both MTV kids, both playing the most likeable guy on their shows—well, Dylan used to, anyway. Way back at that first audition, recognizing each other, they'd promised to be cool whoever got it.

Well, Dylan's cool. He's so cool, he feels like he might throw up a little, or cry. Not entirely real, not sure what even to do with himself, except he needs to look at that script—No, he needs to read the book again—No, he needs to call Tyler, have a nervous breakdown in front of him, needs to fucking—blow him, for how this turned out, for being the reason for how this turned out.

 _guess what_ , he texts.

_hey guess whattt_

_yoooooo_

_pick up your phoooooooone_

“Dylan,” Tyler says, and Dylan's so amped up, the look on Tyler's face doesn't really sink in.

“Guess who's about to play a guy who loses his chiiiild,” Dylan jokes, and promptly realizes he is not Bo Burnam, and shock humor is terrible, when Tyler doesn't even crack a smile. “I think I'm going to pass out,” Dylan confesses. “Ignore me, I'm like, naturally high right now.”

Tyler just kind of looks—confused.

“Susan called you?” he says, and for a moment Dylan remembers Susan's talk, and wants to call her up, like, make up a dance called I Was Right, You Were Wrong (The Not-Hiding-My-Boyfriend Song). YouTube, he'll be a YouTube kid again, it'll be worth it.

Then it dawns on him that Tyler still—doesn't look happy. Like, he looks like _Derek_ , frowning and with his brows coming together for a little brow pow-wow.

“What,” Dylan says.

“No, it's just—” Tyler's never looked so out of it. “Susan said you got it?”

“Alex,” Dylan says, and when that doesn't change Tyler's face one bit, he adds, “Saxon. The other top two dude. They're not going with him.”

Some of the confusion sweeps away, and then Tyler just looks—bummed. Which, why—this is the _dream_ , this is, like, all the weight off Dylan's back, finally, all his anxiety gone—most of his anxiety— _some_ of his anxiety gone. Whatever, it's still incredible.

“I, uh,” Tyler says. Eyes apologetic, why's he apologetic? Dylan should fucking _propose_ to him, lock this shit down here and now before things get crazy and Dylan's schedule shuts down his personal life again. “I got a message,” Tyler says. “On Twitter. A DM.”

And, Dylan knows this. Downside of following fans: occasionally, you will get weird private messages that make you really uncomfortable.

But—no, that's not Tyler's embarrassed face. His ears aren't even a little bit pink. Dylan's way off on this.

“Emma saw the video,” Tyler says.

“Emma,” Dylan says blankly. Then, “Emma _Donoghue_? What's she think?”

“She thinks, ah,” Tyler says, uncomfortably. “She wants to meet me.”

“You,” Dylan says, and Tyler tenses, and Dylan didn't—that wasn't— _What?_ “Cool,” he tries, tries to be. “Like, because—”

“For the role,” Tyler says, a little stiffly. “She wants me to play Micah.”


	9. undrafted

“Makes sense,” Dylan decides. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah. I mean, you stole scenes from Tom Hanks. No shit you stole them from me.”

In Dylan's head, in the split second of vetting before the words spill out of his mouth, it's a compliment.

Tyler blinks at him, and then his mouth smiles ahead of the rest of his face, and he says, “She said she doesn't wanna make the movie without me.”

Dylan whistles, impressed.

It's not supposed to sound sarcastic.

Tyler's smile flatlines. “I,” he says. Glaring down at something off camera—the floor, or his sneakers. “I didn't know this was gonna—”

“No, I know,” Dylan says, face hot, hands cold. “What, like you need _me_ for a career boost.”

Tyler flinches, and really, Dylan just needs to stop talking, stop trying to be cool when he obviously can't sell it.

“You _don't_ , I'm saying,” Dylan says, against all instincts. “You have like, what, four movies in production right now? The, the spy one, right, and then, uh, Hot Something, then the one with all the gore, you texted me that picture from the makeup chair, and then the, oh! The baseball one, that one seems really cool.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “That about sums it up.” His jaw is doing a Derek thing.

Faraway, underwater, Dylan's gut is in knots looking at him, but none of it is really registering over the sour taste in his mouth.

“But yeah, do my movie,” Dylan says. “I mean, obviously it isn't, so. Go for it.”

“My agent'll fire me if I don't,” Tyler says, and for a second he's pleading, eyes wide, horribly exposed, Dylan's stomach swooping—

“Good,” Dylan says, and nods, and he means, Yeah, fine, do it, but Tyler's eyes go huge and then shutter and then—Tyler's hand fills the screen, and he's gone.

 

 _That's not what I meant_ , Dylan should text Tyler like, immediately, but he doesn't.

It's—Dylan has a problem, sometimes, with resentfulness. Not even a problem, he's not—it's never really affected his life before, so he never really made an effort to tamp down on it.

Justin Bieber, for example. Guy just seems like a tool. Like, even before he cheated on Selena, Dylan had that one nailed: he's just, like, the worst. And sure, that realization just so happened to coincide with him seeing the girl of Dylan's pre-pubescent dreams, but that doesn't make it wrong. They can break up, claim to be friends, Justin can go to church and do this apology tour, but Dylan isn't buying it. Selena Gomez herself couldn't change his mind.

And that's fine, because Dylan's never gonna get any facetime with the dude anyway. It's not like he's gonna be in the next cubicle over, or behind the camera telling Dylan what to do. Dylan's never had to swallow down his feelings, or, like, fake fondness, pretend everything's cool between them.

Not that this feels anything like that. It's just that Dylan can't see himself relaxing with Bieber, chilling out and just hanging. Even if it's petty, even if he's being an emotional five year old. Even if he wanted to be an adult about it, he can't shake the edge in his voice, the way everything comes out weird and pointed.

And that's—now, Dylan needs to get over that instinct, like, _right now_. Before he does something really stupid, before this shitty, petty side of his completely sets the most secure part of his life on fire.

It's just that there's this hollow feeling in his gut, this buzz under his skin, this endless rumbling in his head, _this was his chance_. Dylan's last chance to resuscitate his flagging career, to get things back on track after bomb after movie bomb, after getting fired from a fucking MTV show that might just be the most notable part of his IMDB page, forever. That this really might be his life now: sitting in front of his laptop, watching House of Cards because Hoechlin has _opinions_ he refuses to share for fear of spoiling Dylan in the off chance he ever got into this incredibly boring Scandal-without-any-actual-scandals show. Also, blatant dog murder, that's fun for the whole family. When in doubt: dog murder. Dylan doesn't watch TV to watch _acts of terrorism_ , okay, that's not a selling point. Cover Dylan in puppies and he's the happiest dude he'll ever manage to be. This? This is the _least fun a viewing experience could possibly be_.

Now, now see this: A wild Dylan in captivity. Isolated, pining for his mate, he writes endless amounts of passive-aggressive texts he doesn't dare send, and deletes them, and then writes a million empty apologies, and then tries to get into Game of Thrones again despite the rape and all the general Why would anyone ever watch this-ness of it all. Despondent, he marathons Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and then every YouTube video on Rachel Bloom's channel, and questions if he ever was a YouTube star at all. He was just messing around, just—his whole career was him just messing around.

And now it's over.

Because you can't come back from that. From getting fired, and running out of a major audition, and then risking it all as some last-ditch effort to work up some fan-pushed petition or something, and everyone coming back from it like, “Nah, we're good. Your boyfriend's really hot though, what's his number?”

And the fact is—the fact is, Dylan's not some, some delusional optimist, okay. He knows what happens now. Tyler blows up as Micah, wins an Oscar or enough acclaim that he's avalanched with brilliant scripts, and forgets all about bitter loser Dylan O'Barely Funny in about ten seconds. Meanwhile, Dylan gets a new cat for every Academy Award nom or snub, and is eventually found half-eaten in his apartment when the neighbors start to smell something. Pan in on his laptop screen, Netflix pop-up mocking, _Are you still watching “My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic”?_ Freeze, roll credits.

And—and you know what, fine. Just-moved-to-California Dylan would be satisfied with that, with ever getting that far. It's more than he ever could've believed for himself. So—so just suck it up, Dylan. You got lucky, you got spoiled, now it's over. Get over yourself. One-year-in-California Dylan would be stunned to still be _alive_ , right now. So, congratulations. You hit a home run, now the game's over, you can't just stand around the empty pitch like you own the place. Just take your ring, sign some fangirl's DVDs, and figure out what the rest of your life looks like. Text your stupidly perfect boyfriend and enjoy these five seconds where he still remembers your name.

 _take the job_ , he texts Tyler.

_hey_

_heyy_

_take the jobbbbbbbb_

_do iiiiiiiit_

_blow their socks off_

_and shoes_

_unless their feet stink_

_shoes on socks off_

_i'm glad we've resolved this_

_< 3<3_

_that's not two hearts by the way_

_it's two butts_

_because i FUCKIN' love you_

_do it do it do it_

_or face my eternal wrath >:{_

_that's evil mustache dylan btw_

_very very intimidating_

_ps sorry for being a passive aggressive jealous dick :(_

There, that should do it.

Dylan really doesn't know how he ever talked to anyone before texting was a thing.

 

… Tyler messages back.

For an age and a half, just “…”

Then Tyler calls him.

Which, no, no. Noh, oh oh oh, _no_.

Being supportive and goofy by text? Yeah, maybe Dylan can do that. But actually convincing Ty he's okay, like, face-to-face? Danger. Red alert, will not work. Will, in fact, be hella counterproductive, because regardless of what Dylan knows, and wants, and is trying desperately to convey, it turns out that when it comes to real life feelings, Dylan is an _incredibly shitty actor_.

 _fun fact:_ he texts. _if i picked up facetime now, you'd get to watch me take a shit_

_i mean i don't know_

_maybe that's something you're into_

_we've never really gone deep kinks-wise_

_fyi watched human centipede in my formative years and don't feel that incredibly scarred by it?_

_like who knows, maybe that's where i got my irrational fear of needles_

_but overall, i'm open to suggestions_

Tyler doesn't answer.

 

It's fine; it's fine. It's just that Dylan is either developing stomach cancer or so stressed he's getting a gut ulcer. Which—hey, his brain interjects, remember when you told the whole teenage world you have herpes on the cast commentary of the Teen Wolf pilot? Humiliating, am I right? Okay, back to what you were thinkin' about. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. PS: Kill yourself.

It's none of those things, he knows: the truth is, he's pregnant. The truth is he's not pregnant, he's _cramping_ , he's _losing the baby_. The problem with all that is, without Tyler next to him, head thrown back, shoulders shaking, none of that feels remotely funny.

You know what helps with cramps? Masturbation. Gettin' handsy with your... man...dsy. You know who boners remind Dylan of? Here's a hint: Jeff Davis once wrote him a scene where he did nothing but gasp and shiver shirtless, just to justify a year of half-starving him while also taping his feet to a treadmill and his palms to those weights that can totally snap your spine if they slip out of your sweaty hands. You know, the kind of workout where you need to have another guy as backup so you don't get your ribcage crushed. Did Dylan ever do that kind of workout? No, he ate Doritos and laughed, and also spit that taste of bogus “chocolate” protein shake into the sink, because he has the empathy of a common house fly.

Those are sure to be some of Tyler's fondest Dylan memories before any recollection of a Dylan whatsoever completely fades from his head like the family in that Back To The Future photo.

Tyler, he thought if he put that much effort into getting in shape for the role, there'd be, you know, _a role_ at the end of it. An actual storyline, some—character growth.

How fucking depressing is that?

And that's why Dylan can't—can't ever be bitter at _him_ for this. It's been a looooong freaking time coming, Dylan knows that. And if it was any other movie, any other _role_ , Dylan would be the first one throwing Tyler a party about it.

And he still wants to, he still wants to be a, a proud papa about it. To make up a celebration dance, to take Ty out to dinner again, to run lines with him, all of it.

It's just that every time he tries, his mouth just spills vitriol, just makes things worse and worse.

So he's got rules: no face-to-face interaction. No vocals, no anything. Just very, very careful texting, and privately swimming in his own dejection, not infecting anyone else. He's, he's under official quarantine until he can get his shit together, stop _caring_ so freaking much.

And as soon as he's got the role down, as soon as he can do a good impression of a more mature human being, he can get back to civilization. So: training starts now, Dyl. It's your own time you're wasting, c'mon now.

“I'm a tool,” Dylan tries. Makes a face. “I'm a _fucking_ tool,” he tells himself, tells the Tyler in his head. “Ignore, like, my face, and the way my voice sounds, and whatever stupid thing I said, what I _meant_ was...”

No, nope, nothing even slightly believable.

That's fine. That's just awesome.

Dylan just can't talk to another human being until he gets a freaking lobotomy, that's all.

 


	10. best pickup lines, go: hey baby, you're so pretty

 

On Tyler's phone, there's still that message, verified and clear. He's only double checked, oh, maybe a couple dozen times.

**Emma Donoghue** _@EmmaDonoghue_

_Good morning! A friend showed me your video with Dylan, and I had to contact you to tell you how moved I am by your interpretation of my words._ _I was brought to tears by the amount of insight_ _you expressed in such subtle gestures. Felicity is wonderful and I wouldn't dream of trying to_ _trying to replace her, but we still haven't found our Micah and I'm ready to fight for you. Turning your heart and soul over to a studio is_ _always difficult—like sending your child to university!—so I insist on having final say on casting, and after seeing your take I have_ _complete faith in your ability to bring Micah to life. I'd like to meet you and talk a little about Micah and your interest in this project._

It's just so unreal. This doesn't happen to Tyler, this hasn't had a chance of happening since—

Tyler fell off the radar as a serious actor before he hit puberty. He's accepted that. There's nothing wrong with the job he does now, the roles he plays. It's good work, satisfying work; everything means something to someone. Even a horror movie Tyler might be embarrassed by sometimes helped someone through something. Derek definitely meant something to huge groups of people. Tyler's not gonna let some elitist Hollywood award system stop him appreciating that.

Of course he wants the big roles, the movies that mean something to _him_. To be a Johnny Depp or a Joaquin Phoenix or a Heath Ledger? Tyler'd have to be crazy not to want that. He just—didn't think it would ever happen. And was fine with that.

But now...

He'd answered Dylan's call feeling guilty, half-ready to turn it down. To offer to turn it down, to take time to consider.

But—“My agent'll fire me if I don't,” he said, tried to—plead with Dylan, make him understand.

And Dylan said, “Good.”

And hours later Tyler can't—can't let go of that. He wasn't expecting Dylan to be happy for him, he wasn't expecting—maybe a quiet, “Congratulations,” some wallowing, and Tyler would've—helped him through it, offered not to take it, and Dylan would've said, “What, are you crazy? You have to, man, you can't do that to yourself.”

And Tyler would make it up to him, find him something better, or they could write something...

But that's not what happened. And that's not what's gonna happen.

Dylan's making it a choice.

Him, and a dozen straight-to-DVDs, Tyler running through a forest with his shirt off, buckets of fake-blood coagulating on his skin, clinging to his abs—zoom in here, get a good shot—wipe him down and reset, go again, more sweat this time.

Or a chance to be in movies Tyler'd actually pay to see if he heard about them. To be the guy who looks past the lens and takes you over, makes you forget you're watching a movie and not just _feeling_ something.

Tyler's seen this choice once before, was paralyzed by it, terrified of making the wrong one. Of choosing and spending the rest of his life stuck reliving that moment, that moment he threw everything away.

It's a good job, a reliable job. It's the man he loves, who he'd take a bullet for without blinking.

So why's every bone in his body screaming to go the other way?

  


Brittany's got promo for _Pitch Perfect 3: Aca-Pocalypse_ for two weeks; Tyler's got reshoots and ADR. They can't make their schedules sync up. It's fine; Tyler can practically hear Brittany's voice in his head. She never liked Dylan, as much as she denied it, as much as she played nice so well Dylan wanted to hang out sometime, do something for her charity, maybe. She thought he was too jokey, that he couldn't take anything seriously. That Tyler takes everything seriously, which—that's not true. Tyler's got jokes, he can joke. He's sarcastic—people just don't hear it. He's...

But maybe that's the point, he thinks, ears heating so India pulls back from the makeup chair assessingly and asks, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Tyler says—blandly, he thinks, but her lips purse.

“You're quiet today,” she says. Searches in her tray of adhesives. “Haven't mentioned Dylan once.”

One day Tyler will figure out how to blush on command, and how to keep from blushing. This is not something Johnny Depp ever had to deal with. You can be twenty-eight, six-one, bench 290 and look like it, but if your ears go red under pressure, you kinda have to resign yourself to every woman on Earth trying to mother you.

It's fine. Concern is—it's nice, sometimes. It could be a lot worse, there's plenty worse—racial profiling, or having an extremely punchable face, which Dylan claims is definitely a thing.

“He's fine,” Tyler says.

India says nothing.

“He,” Tyler says, then thinks better of it. “He—I got a job.”

She's really examining the different prosthetics now, maybe not listening to him at all.

“Or off—Offered a job,” Tyler amends. “That uh—I don't know if I'll...”

“Porn?” India asks, and Tyler chokes on nothing.

“Wha—no. No, I'm— _No_. Thank God. No,” he adds again, starting to laugh. “No, not that.”

“I've done porn,” India says, noncommittally, and Tyler says, a couple nods later, “I'm not—It's not—People seem to like it,” like an idiot. His face is flaming, and he can't facepalm or he'll ruin all her work.

“It's just a job,” India says. “Go to work, get through the bullshit, pick up the paycheck, go home. It's about as demoralizing as any 9 to 5.”

“Ah,” Tyler says intelligently.

“You've been acting for a while,” India says. “You've never had a profoundly shitty moment? Where you felt gross and used and just wanted to get out of there? But you couldn't. Cameras were rolling, scene was still playing, so you just stayed there and took it. You don't have to tell me,” she says, as the closed-down, interview-ready Tyler swallows up the rest of him. “I've talked to plenty of actors on their worst work day. Someone's gotta fix the makeup after the meltdown. So I can promise you—it's really not that different.”

“I'm fine,” Tyler says, and hears the tense note in his voice, and apologizes. “It's not—It's nothing like that. It's the opposite.”

“Good news,” India says. “And he's jealous.”

“It was an accident,” Tyler says in a rush. “I never meant to—It was his audition, I was just—”

“Oh, honey,” India says slowly. “You got _Terminal_.” Her eyes widen. “You'd turn that down for him?”

“I should,” Tyler says, and hates how uncertain he sounds. “Shouldn't I?”

“The boy's a saint,” India says dramatically. Tyler rolls his eyes.

“I should,” he says, again. “I just—can't.”

“You're human,” India says. “And you earned it as much as he would've. He'll get over it.”

“I don't know,” Tyler says. “This—He really wasn't expecting—”

“He'll get over it,” India promises. “And you'll never forgive him if you turn it down because he was pouting.”

“That's not—” Tyler says, a little defensively. “He really wants this. It's not just a job to him.”

“Is it ever?” India asks.

“He's not answering my calls,” Tyler says. “And then he texts, with some stupid excuse, and he won't—it's like he can't even look at me.”

There's a sudden lump in Tyler's throat, that pinching pain in his sinuses that comes just before—

He glares down at his knees, tries to force himself dry-eyed.

“Honey,” India says. She's finally found the prosthetic, a long, savage cut she starts applying to his cheek. “Does he love you?”

“I,” Tyler says, and regrets it. India's fingers are gentle where they smear the makeup back into place. “Yeah,” Tyler decides. He's not—he knows that much.

“Then you'll get past this,” India says. “Don't worry about it.”

  


Tyler's phone heats up his pocket like a smoking gun, that message daring him to make a move, pick a side, respond.

These kinds of offers don't wait around. Authors don't like being your fifth priority.

 _I really appreciate it_ , he almost writes, but his fingers stick to the keyboard, muscles too tense to twitch into the right positions.

They move of their own accord, find Dylan's last text. Some joke, some long string of nothing, and usually it would be funny, would be the most funny fucking thing Tyler's seen all day. But now it's just what Dylan does when he's nervous, when he's hiding how he really feels under a million witty distractions.

Some wild instinct takes Tyler over, types, _I miss you_ , and hits send before he can get a grip on himself.

It's not even two full seconds before Dylan responds, _i'm sorry_

_i suck_

_just do it okay i swear i want you to_

_please?_

_prettty pleeeeaaase_

Tyler shakes his head, shoves his phone back in his pocket.

  


Tyler doesn't mope. He's not a moper. If he's stressed out, that's just incentive to work harder, tire yourself out. Push past it.

Four takes of the same running scene, mark to mark, catch your breath.

Aaand cut.

“Change it up,” Jackie shouts from behind the monitors. “Lets try a couple new things, give our DP something to work with.”

When reshoots turned into filming a second movie, Tyler doesn't know. He turns to Camille, who makes a bemused face at him. There's sweat streaking her hair, a flush high in her cheeks. Her wardrobe's about as original as his. Artfully torn low-cut tank top exposing a lacy bra strap, low-riding jean short shorts. Tyler'd feel more guilty noticing if that wasn't the whole point. If she hadn't eyed him up on their first day of shooting, raised her eyebrows.

“Hollywood equality,” she said, laughing. “We're both the whore who gets killed for having sex.”

It's fine; it's funny. It's—people seem to like it.

It's not _Terminal_ , so it's not _Terminal_. It is what it is. There's nothing wrong with that.

India's just putting ideas in his head, encouraging him to negatively re-contextualize everything.

She said it herself, it's like any job. Any job has bad days, or uncomfortable moments, and you just have to keep going until you can leave. Tyler's lucky, whatever shitty movie he's in. That he's in a movie at all. That he can support himself on his looks and a little bit of a workout. The character stuff is just a bonus.

And who even knows what becomes big? Tyler predicted Teen Wolf lasting six seasons back when they were shooting the pilot, and even Jeff Davis laughed in his face. You never know what picks up a cult following, what—or what bombs, some movie adaptation of a beloved book that no one can stand. There's no way to predict what it'll look like after the final edit. You're just—running, crying, giving it everything you have, every time. And then it's out of your hands.

Reset cameras, back to one, time to do it all again.

  


Tyler tries Dylan again outside the ADR booth, kind of praying about it. Fourth ring, he gets a notification.

_threw up like 3 times. my throat is literally shredded. can we just text?_

Tyler sighs.

 _You want anything? I'll come over_ he texts back.

 _please no_ , Dylan responds. _i feel like shit. like actual excrement_

 _sorry_ , he adds again. _i miss you too. just can't now_

 _Don't worry about it_ , Tyler texts back.

He takes a second to get his head straight, and heads back to work.

 


	11. fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for people being self-critical and ableist toward themselves, which at times may seem like general ableism.

A week in, Tyler stops calling, and Dylan breaks up with his laptop, shoves it off to the side of the bed and curls small.

The days kind of blend into each other after that.

Blind item: Which twenty-something actor from a popular MTV show barely caught his vomit in his hands before tripping to the nearest trash can to finish up? Clues: He's not on the MTV show anymore. He's not acting anymore. He's still twenty-something? And male? Probably. No guarantees.

He's, like, _startlingly_ sober. Like, getting drunk would not fix how fucking sober he is.

Getting high would make it _worse_.

He's not scrolling through Tyler's replies, apology and concern getting more and more distant, oh no. No, his mind's already memorized those. Turns out that great memory for scripts turns fucking kamikaze with nothing to do, and just pulls out all the ingredients for a mental breakdown and takes off to find some more.

Wah, wah, poor little self-sabotaging headcase.

 

SOFT PAN in on TYLER, our PROTAGONIST: staring down at his phone, a soft frown on his face. Eyes like the prettiest marbles you've ever seen, only prettier. Perfect stubble frames the kind of pout that makes everyone watching want to kiss it better. He's probably drowning in offers, right now. But, no—he turns them all down, because he's just that much of a GENTLEMAN.

Abrupt FLASH CUT to DYLAN, the ANTAGONIST. Hair like a cartoon of an electric shock, Justin Bieberish body. Camera probably catches him mid-stroke: even a mother could never love that O-face. On his bed, surrounded by trash, stinking—How can we physically demonstrate how disgusting he smells right now? He's probably adjusted to it—Will accept suggestions. Actual plumes of toxic smoke would probably be going too far.

We watch TYLER, our hearts breaking for him, read a string of bullshit excuses. He's [word that means “fuckable” but also means “we will cut the throats of anyone who upsets him”], but stoic, fully capable of getting out of bed and being a normal adult man despite whatever he's dealing with emotionally.

MONTAGE of TYLER being functional, charming, everyone's favorite person, juxtaposed with DYLAN clutching his gut to keep from vomiting major organs.

Roll credits.

Really, it's a shame Dylan never wrote that screenplay he was talkin' about.

He's clearly such a fucking pro at it.

 

Tyler's not the only missed call, oh no. The entire phone situation has become a little too daunting. Susan is probably gearing up to sue Dylan for screwing her out of her ten percent. Posey sent four text streams in varying levels of casual concern. Holland ships Dylan a box of strawberry shortcake cake pops that spell out STILES LIVES IN MY <3, and Dylan opens the box and stares and stares and kind of melts into the ground.

He means to thank her, he does, but instead he eats like twelve of them, and spends the next undefined blur of time convulsing on the bathroom floor, and then eating anything, drinking anything, keeping food down, thinking in straight lines, and standing up without immediately regretting it kinda rule themselves out as realistic lifestyle choices.

He wakes up freezing, head cloudy, throat sour. Skin soaked through with cold sweat, t-shirt sticking to him like a band-aid. Kind of maneuvers into the shower, where it becomes apparent that standing is no longer a thing he can successfully do.

The fun times just keep coming. Sit down shower, alright, Dylan's always wanted to know what it feels like to go through withdrawal without actually ever getting to enjoy the being high part. This is cool, he can use this—could have, could have used this if he was still a working actor, if he ever played an addict, or a fucking broken person. Still, maybe Tyler can...

And no, nope, bad direction. Bad train of thought choice, because this tsunami wave of, like, anxiety and fucking— _grief_ comes over him then, and he's just kind of flattened under it, heart pounding and pounding, until he can't breathe at all.

Really, if Posey wouldn't have let himself in and called 911, things might've actually gotten pretty bad.

 

So maybe Dylan kinda stopped eating for a while.

It's just easier, you know, than eating and being sick, and being sick, and being sick. Except then he ate like, way more than his body could handle anymore, and kind of almost killed himself.

“That's not,” Dylan says, when his doctor tries to explain this to him. “I mean, c'mon. That's—Like actually _dead_ , killed?”

Which leads to this whole tangent about eating disorders, which—Dylan doesn't, he's not—He's never had to lose weight. Like, he could always eat whatever, it never stuck. So obviously he doesn't have—well, _obviously_. He doesn't obsessively stare at himself in the mirror, all critical, he mostly resigned himself to his whatever body the day it showed up and never really changed. So all of this is obviously insane.

He just—stopped being hungry, for a while, there. You're not supposed to eat when you're not hungry; the five minutes stalking Tyler to his trainer taught Dylan that much. That's not even about losing weight, that's just—basic Person 101. Intro to Eating.

Also, Dylan calls bullshit, because Tyler is literally all muscle, no fat, and he's fine. Dylan, he's not _fat_ but he's got, you know, an actual stomach, not six protruding—He's obviously still got some nutrition to spare, is the point. Stored some away for winter.

So then there's a speech about how all bodies are different, wow, shocker. And fine, maybe there's something there, being eighteen, kind of seeing Tyler, like, the apex of physical human male perfection, and being like, cool! Wonder what I'll look like when I'm a—a man. Shut up. And then getting to twenty-two, -three, -four, like, nope, you're gonna look sixteen forever. Also, your attempts at facial hair will look like stray pubes. Sorry, bud.

But—yeah, no. Dylan wasn't actually, like, competing—or trying to reach that, what, are you crazy? His face is on fire just hearing himself, his humiliating little admission, why would he even say that? Dylan knows what's possible, in his life, okay, he's not gonna start trying to—This dude's really off base, is the point.

Blind item: which blockbuster reject—

“Dylan,” the doctor says. “What you have is a disease. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I'm not,” Dylan says. How is this his _life_. “I'm not ashamed, I just—I don't have it.”

But it's one of those catch-22 things: That's exactly what someone with an eating disorder would say.

Try getting out of that one.

 

Posey looks worse than Dylan's ever seen him. He lifts his head from his hands when he sees Dylan stir; his eyes are swollen. Dylan's gut twists.

“I'm,” he says, but Posey cuts him off with a red-rimmed glare.

“Don't fucking say fine. I _found_ you.” His voice is low, hoarse. “I'm done losing people. I'm _done_.”

That's a gut punch like nothing else, and Dylan deserves it. He's been so fucking selfish for so long. He doesn't know what came over him.

“Anxiety,” Posey says. “And depression. You told me. I should've—”

“I didn't say depression,” Dylan hedges.

“Yeah, well you may as well have!” Posey bursts out. “You didn't text for a month, and I thought you were just,”

“Bitter,” Dylan offers. It's a little bit true.

“Hoechlin just about had a heart attack,” Posey says. “I wasn't gonna tell him until I figured out what was up with you two, but fucking TMZ got the 911 call—”

“You're shitting me,” Dylan says, head thudding back against the pillow. If his career wasn't already dead in the water, this would be what took it out. And _Tyler_ — “How much does he hate me?”

Posey narrows his eyes at him. “You think _he_ hates _you_.”

Dylan nods like a bobblehead, pleading.

“He's been out in the hall for hours,” Posey says. “He thinks you don't wanna see him.”

Dylan closes his eyes, squeezes them shut tight. The tears come anyway.

“I'm such a jackass,” he says. “We've conclusively, after months of double blind studies, we can definitively say that I am the biggest asshole.”

“You forgot something,” Posey says. “When you were busy collecting all that information.”

“Doubt it,” Dylan says bleakly.

“You bet,” Posey says. His eyes are bright, fixed on Dylan's, challenging. “Fucking _peer review_.”

 

“I'm sorry,” is the first thing that tumbles out of Dylan's mouth when he sees Tyler, Tyler in the doorway looking so tired, and so scared, and then shoving all that back somewhere and coming closer, closer, closer, saying, “No, I—I'm not gonna take it.”

“Not,” Dylan says blankly, and then it comes back, thumps through him, the stupid movie. Tyler thinks this is about some _movie,_ thinks—

“It doesn't matter,” Tyler says. “Not more than you. I'm not—”

His hands are trembling.

“You can't do that,” Dylan says.

“Watch me,” Tyler says, and glares at the ground, and Dylan can't let this go on.

“That's not what this is,” Dylan says. “You didn't— _do_ this to me. You can't fix it.”

“That's when this started,” Tyler says stubbornly. “And I should've—”

“It started when I got fired,” Dylan says. “You weren't even on the same continent. I just—lost my appetite, you know? And then I just started vomiting all the time, and it was just—easier—”

“Not to eat at all,” Posey says.

“For a _month_?” Tyler says. “And I never even—”

He looks so much like a lost kid, it's heartbreaking.

“It's happened before,” Dylan mutters. “When I was like thirteen. It's not, like..." He gestures at the room, the contraption he's trapped in. "This isn't exactly normal, for me."

All of this is so surreal. That diagnosis, and this hospital room, and everyone acting like Dylan's on his fucking deathbed, for some overblown panic attack. And Tyler, Tyler with this tragic Derek Hale face on, treating Dylan's weird little anxiety habits like this earth-shattering plot revelation. Like it was his job to notice, or something. Like there was even something to notice, there wasn't. 

"I get skinny plenty," Dylan says. "Like every season, I can just do that. It doesn't mean anything." He kind of half laughs, shoves his unencumbered hand through his hair. "And I'm not, like, the biggest... skin barer, in the room. There's not, like, all of this material for comparison."

"I've seen you," Tyler says. "Enough. I should've..."

"What, pointed out how scrawny I am?" Dylan jokes. "When you're this, like, perfect specimen, and I always am. Yeah, that really sounds like you. 'Bro, do you even _lift_?'"

"You said you were sick," Tyler says, ignoring the distraction completely. "You said you were sick. And you don't. You don't, you always say you're fine, even when you're not. So I should've known." 

"Don't," Dylan says, and glares at the ceiling for a second, blinking hard. "Don't, like... I was being a little bitch. Blowing you off. That's why I told you, I just didn't wanna..." 

Tyler looks punched, looks like that day Dylan punched him in the face, wide-eyed and hurt and trying and failing not to be.

"It's, no, Ty, it's just what I do," Dylan says urgently. "When, when I get like this. I don't bring people into it." He forces himself to catch Tyler's gaze, hold it. Anything to get that look off his face. "It's not you, it's not anything you... I just kind of... can't."

"You said it happened before," Posey says. "When you were thirteen."

"No, yeah," Dylan agrees. "Yeah, _exactly_. I have, like, the best parents in the world. No way they wouldn't've noticed. If there was, like, any sign. But I didn't want them to.”

Except that just has both of them looking at him, like, _Why not?_ Amazing parents, people dream of having these parents, why wouldn't you wanna take full advantage? Put all your weird crap out there, make them deal with it. Who wouldn't, right? 

So totally confusing, why he might not want to be this massive anxious disappointing burden on everyone.

“You couldn't have known,” he says. “You're not this oblivious guy missing all these blatant signals. I'm always skinny, I'm always anxious. Since you've known me. Nothing's different."

He can see the movie version of this too easy. Some big feed-the-moral line, like,  _I've been an actor all my life_. Voice just catching, tears spilling down his face, a tight shot getting wider, Movie Dylan kept in exact center, all snot-nosed and shaky, his friends living props around him. Credits come in over the scene, one by one, no music, just the faint sounds of Movie Dylan's sniffling, the ambient noise of the hospital around him. And there you have it. The whole still, tragic scene. The Academy Award-bait cumshot. 

That's not resolution, in real life. That's not honesty. That's just blowing everything out of proportion.

"Just, it's nothing," Dylan says. "I don't even know what I'm saying, that this happened before. I don't even know what 'this' is." He huff-laughs, one beat, says, "I just, I freaked myself out.”

“That's not,” Tyler says, everything else disappearing behind steady reassurance. “It's an illness. It's not your fault.”

“Yeah, mental illness,” Dylan says, only half jokingly.

“It's not your fault,” Tyler repeats, like he's on a very special episode of 7th Heaven, but something about it, the pleading look on his face, grabs at Dylan's heart and twists.

“It's like cancer,” Posey says. “You wouldn't judge someone with—”

“I was a dick,” Dylan says. He can't take this surreal sympathy a second longer. “To both of you. That's not a fucking symptom.” He shakes his head. “None of this is an actual—I did all of it. I got myself fired. I stopped eating, I stopped answering the phone, I went psycho on Tyler for getting good news. None of that's in the fucking DSM-V.”

“It fucking is,” Posey says.

“O'Brien Syndrome,” Dylan suggests. “Won't my parents be proud.”

“Stop,” Tyler says. “You're not the only person I know with major anxiety. I just didn't put it together.” He tips up his glasses, rubs his eyes. “I should've—It just manifests a little differently. But the ruminating, and avoiding the phone—”

“Loss of appetite,” Posey says.

“Oh my god,” Dylan says, his head swimming. “It doesn't have to be this whole thing, okay? Can't it just be, you know, me, being a—a selfish—”

“No,” Tyler says softly.

“No way, dude,” Posey says.

“Well why not?” Dylan says, exasperated. “Why do I have to be—sick, or insane, why can't this just be something _fixable_?” His throat is killing him, making his eyes water, and he hates—how he does this to himself, makes something out of literally nothing, wastes everyone's time. “Shit,” he realizes, elbowing himself upright. “My parents—what if they heard—”

“I didn't say your name,” Posey says. “You're not in the news, it's not—It's just me, freaking out. They don't even know if I know you.”

“But Hoechlin,” Dylan says.

“I just had a bad feeling,” Tyler says. “And I would've called Tyler anyway, but I had to make sure—” He stops. “Do you want to talk to them?”

“I can't,” Dylan says, adrenaline spiking just considering it. “I'm telling you, they're the most supportive—They're gonna think they did something wrong.”

“It's not about blame,” Tyler says.

“They wouldn't blame themselves if it was cancer,” Posey says, and Dylan snaps, “But it's _not_. I don't even know if it's anything for sure, the doctor thinks I have a freaking _eating disorder_ —” He shakes his head. “You guys aren't psychiatrists, okay, you're guessing. I'm not gonna worry my mom over some stupid—stomach virus, or—”

“You know that's not what this is,” Tyler says.

“Or mono,” Dylan challenges. “Fatigue, loss of appetite, vomiting—it doesn't have to be some—” It doesn't. Dylan's not, like, talking to people who aren't there, or blowing his brains out. This was just a bad couple of days, you know? A bad year. No need to sound the alarm, send everyone running. “I'll figure it out, I swear. I just have to find a job, and start packing my schedule again. I'm fine as long as I'm working.”

“I'll talk to Jeff,” Posey says. “The show's not the same without you, dude. He wants you back, he's just too proud to admit it.” He looks at Tyler. “You too.”

“Stiles is dead,” Dylan says, staring down at his fingers. “I screwed up. I got the memo, okay, it's over.”

“It doesn't have to be,” Tyler says.

“What is?” Posey says, frowning.

“Me, acting,” Dylan says. “Pretending I could—” A lump slots into his throat, chokes him. “I had a good run,” he says after a couple of covert thick swallows, trying not to sniffle, but also not have an exposed snot situation. “Better than most people get.”

“You're serious,” Tyler says.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Posey says. Dylan can't help but grin, if a little wanly. Always the diplomat, Posey.

“I got fired,” Dylan reminds him. “And I was—Blue Mind's on Netflix. And it has like, a zero star rating. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking, the whole time. I was trying to like, do this deep, this really intricate—” He scrubs at his eyes, his jaw. “I got lucky, okay? Stiles was funny. Now it's over.”

“Blue Mind's the most boring fucking piece of shit I've ever seen,” Posey says. “You couldn't've saved it. No one could've.”

“I liked it,” Tyler says.

“It was completely up its own ass,” Posey says. “That doesn't suddenly white out all the crazy shit you're able to do. Stiles wasn't a fucking fluke.”

“I don't think Blue Mind was that bad,” Tyler says, almost to himself. “The scene by the water—”

“Oh god, don't,” Dylan says, his skin turning to lava just remembering.

“Or, or the part with your girlfriend, the breakup—”

“I was literally ham in that scene,” Dylan says. “Just—hammin' it up. Chewing the scenery.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Tyler says. “You've never overacted in your life.”

“Kate was dead,” Posey says. “Peter. No one gives a fuck. They want you back, man.”

“I bitched about Jeff's writing,” Dylan says. “On _set_. In front of like forty people.”

“He can't fire you for being sick,” Posey says, practically vibrating with the sudden realization. “If—if someone's sick, and it affects their work—You can't fire them! It's _discrimination._ ”

“I'm not—” Dylan says, and gives up, exhausted. His throat is killing him, he's gonna pass out in a minute.

“Dylan,” Tyler says, and Dylan can't, he can't deal with this. With the glasses and the stubble and the eyes and the _face_ , and all this reassurance, like he's his _dad_ or something. And now he thinks Dylan's _crazy_ , and they're never gonna have sex ever again. Dylan's always gonna be this fragile little—and he needs to throw up, he needs to throw up right the fuck now.

“Bathroom,” he chokes out, eyes already watering, and bolts past them, past Posey's self-righteous advocacy and Tyler's intervention-y soft-eyed understanding and _support_ , and barricades himself in the bathroom, and takes a breath, and blows and blows and blows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beta's a little busy lately, so i'll probably love you forever if you take a minute and drop a comment. otherwise i'm just rereading my own stuff obsessively, like a dude thinking he can hear the ocean with a seashell when it's actually the blood rushing in his ear.  
> the dude can be a shirtless tyler hoechlin, if you want.  
> (that's not really the point, but it's a nice visual, isn't it?)


	12. fine

“It's really fine,” Tyler says, trying his hardest to exude calm, twenty-six ounces of gloppy fake blood drying across his face and neck. It itches; he concentrates on that. The banal little inconveniences of his job, and not Camille and India's mostly well meaning and completely irritating attempts to force him to talk about his problems.

“He called him three times in ten minutes,” Camille says, like Tyler isn't even there.

“I did not,” Tyler says defensively. He can't help it. “It wasn't ten minutes.” Maybe it's not the best retort in the world, but it's true. That should count for something. “Don't you two have anything else to talk about?”

“I saw that audition video,” Camille says. “How he was looking at you. That boy's got it baaad. Not that I blame him,” she adds, reaching over to pinch Tyler's cheek.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tyler thinks of dodging, but he doesn't. He stays still, forces a smile. Watches his face move in the mirror, dried blood flaking where the muscles twitch.

India bats Camille's hand away. “That is a _work in progress_ ,” she says. “And it doesn't matter how the boy feels. You can't reward bad behavior.”

“He's not a _boy_ ,” Tyler says. His voice sounds a little faraway to his own ears. India and Camille share glances. “And it's not—He's not feeling well.”

“For a week?” India says skeptically. “Honey, he's not sick. He's throwing a tantrum.”

You get used to it, Tyler thinks. Slipping away while staying rooted in place. He can't actually leave the makeup chair; any excuse would just mean a couple minutes' relief, and then throwing himself back in it again. It's easier to not move at all, not respond, just try to focus on anything else.

“Oh, Tyler,” Camille says, in what Tyler supposes are probably tones of genuine sympathy. She's not a bad person; he probably shouldn't resent her. Shouldn't feel so cagey under her wide-eyed gaze. “I so get it, okay, I've dated so many assholes who seemed so sweet at first.”

“He's not,” Tyler starts, and thinks better of it. A cloud of powdery dried blood showers from his tensed jaw.

“And India's right, you can't reward him,” Camille goes on. “Grow a little backbone. Show him you've got other things going on in your life. You're not just holed up with your phone, waiting—”

“I really don't remember asking for the public's opinion on my private life,” Tyler says, as sedately as he can manage. Camille and India exchange another look. Tyler breathes in. Breathes out. Doesn't notice.

Tyler's not a heartsick teenager; he's doing just fine. He's not obsessively checking his phone, obsessively thinking about where things went wrong. But he's not taking bad advice, spending another year miserable over stupid misunderstandings. And he's not about to make his life a roundtable discussion.

If Dylan needs time, Tyler can give him time. But if he doesn't, if he wants to talk—or even text, Tyler doesn't care anymore. More than anything, he hates uncertainty, hates feeling like the edge is coming any minute, and he's gonna miss it and drop six stories.

 _I love you_ , Tyler wants to text. Just in case Dylan doesn't know, or didn't believe him the first time. All of these—relationship rules, games, it doesn't matter. He's not pretending he doesn't care to soothe his own fragile ego, punching Dylan in the stomach like revenge would make any of it any easier. This isn't a movie. Tyler doesn't have anything to prove.

He reaches in his pocket for his phone—

“Oh no you don't,” Camille says, snatching it from his fingers. “I realize you've made a decision. But given that it's a stupid-ass decision, I'm exercising my veto powers.” She looks at him, at India. “The Avengers? Nick Fury. Nothing?”

“Give me my phone back,” Tyler says tiredly.

“Come and get it,” Camille says, shrugging, like Tyler's gonna take her up on it, gonna let her play keep-away with his phone like he's six years old. He doesn't move.

“I'm serious,” he says. “I'm—I wasn't going to call him.”

“Really,” Camille says, disbelieving. “Who were you gonna call.”

Tyler gives himself a second to flip through his mental Rolodex, finds himself settling on, “Tyler—Tyler Posey.” He adds a casual shrug, half-stifles a smirk, eyebrows rising. “I do have other things going on in my life, believe it or not.”

“Not,” Camille says. “I am not enabling you. In fact—” She leans down, swings her free arm around Tyler's shoulders, his phone held high out of reach. “We're hanging out tonight. You and me. You like Call of Duty?”

 

Tyler gives Camille this much: she's determined to get him back to enjoying his life. Not that he hasn't been, not that he's suddenly blind to all the good he has. He's just been busy, distracted, with reshoots for this never-ending movie, with drafting apologies and responses in his head. It's been more than a week; the job's probably lost in any case. It's getting harder and harder to care.

“The only difference between a martyr and a pushover is PR,” Camille informs him. “If nothing else, you should get a buttload of positive publicity from this. Emma I-Don't-Know-Who _personally_ wrote you a love letter, and promised you—whatever his name is. Main character guy.”

“Micah,” Tyler says.

“Sure,” Camille says. “And it's like this John Green-ish thing, right? Like, the kind of romcom people _like_.”

“It's not a romcom,” Tyler says. “Micah's separated. His son's dying, that's the story. He's looking at his life through all these different lenses, trying to see how he got here. Trying to redirect the stream somehow.”

“It's a pun,” Camille says, making a face. “ _Terminal_. Dear God, that's awful.”

“It's not a pun,” Tyler says, bristling a little bit despite himself. “It has different meanings. It's not funny.”

“Is anything, to you?” Camille asks, then waves this away. “No, that was low. Do over.”

“It's fine,” Tyler says.

“Do you know how often you say that?” Camille says. “It's fine. I'm fine. He's fine. We're fine. I do not think that word means what you think it means.” She waits a beat. “ _Princess Bride_. Are you sure you like movies?”

“Maybe I'm just trying to politely get you to drop it,” Tyler suggests.

“Someone's gotta look out for you,” Camille says. “You obviously won't. You're too nice. Like, an actually nice guy, not a Nice Guy. It's a pretty endangered species.”

“Was I supposed to understand that?” Tyler asks. Camille laughs.

“Nice Guy,” she says. “You know, to a point. Where suddenly the bill comes due, and you owe him.”

“Owe him,” Tyler says.

“Sex,” Camille says. “Or attention, or half your estate. Or your agency to live your life with or without his approval. Or him going on a mass-murdering rampage.”

“Ah,” Tyler says. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure Holland mentioned something about it once. “So I'm—not that,” he clarifies.

“Unless you're really covert about it,” Camille says.

 

“You really know Tyler Posey?” Camille says, out of the blue, two days later. They're on the back of a go-kart, thumbing through suspiciously new sides.

“We lived together,” Tyler says.

Camille's eyebrows jump.

“Not like _that_ ,” Tyler says, ears heating. “Dylan too. When Teen Wolf was in its first season.”

“Right,” Camille says. “The remake. How many seasons did they get out of that?”

“No idea,” Tyler admits. “It's still going on. More than six,” he hazards. “Less than ten.”

“What happened there?” Camille asks. “Tyler Posey. He was gonna get married, right? Or—” She shakes her head, says, “Sorry, I have, like, zero filter. Totally fine if you don't answer that.” Her mouth clicks sympathetically. “And then his mom, and now this friend—”

“What?” Tyler says, some instinctive hackle rising.

“His mom,” Camille says. “It's so sad—”

“Not that,” Tyler says. “Something about his friend?”

“Oh,” Camille says. “Yeah, some friend of his OD'd or something. There's this recording of him freaking out to 911. It's basically all Tumblr can talk about.”

“I,” Tyler says, and stands. “I have to—I need a minute.”

 

His trailer's the closest thing to privacy Tyler has. Wardrobe can get in, but that's it, and Stacy's good about keeping unexpected visits to a minimum. Roger not so much, but he mostly delegates, so it's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

Yeah, even Tyler's starting to hear it now.

He braces himself against the door, whips his phone out. Taps into Twitter without even really thinking about it.

And there it is.

**TMZ** _@TMZ_

_Tyler Posey 911 – “He's not f**king breathing” tmz.com/tyler-posey-frantic-911-call_

There's a hastily written scrap of article, more an admission of ignorance than anything else. No mention of who was hurt, or what condition he's in now. Not even a standard “asks for privacy at this time.” And when did Tyler start getting news about his friends from gossip sites?

Posey picks up on the third ring.

“I was gonna call you.” His voice is low, wracked. “I just kind of froze, you know? Like my fingers went numb. I couldn't—”

“What happened,” Tyler says. Fine, he's fine. Posey needs a shoulder to lean on, that's all he's saying. It doesn't have to be—

“I thought he was just,” Posey says. “Feeling weird. About not being on the show anymore.”

“But,” Tyler says. Some kind of fire is burning through him, scalding his chest. “But he's—What _happened_?”

His hands are freezing.

“I got sick of giving him _space_ ,” Posey says. “And I went over there, and let myself in, and _found_ —Fucking _shit_ ,” he says, after a couple of sniffs. “I can't fucking talk. He could've _died._ ”

Could've. _Didn't._ Something like relief breaks open in Tyler's chest, has a near-sob rising through him, stopping just under his throat. The relief dissipates in seconds, replaced by pure icy fear, and sick regret. He should've kept calling, he should've explained—

Tyler sits down, hard, and scrubs at his jaw until it unsticks.

“I still don't, I can't...” Posey says. “I thought, for a fucking million-year minute I actually thought...”

Tyler can't even imagine it. Finding Dylan like that, and keeping it together long enough to save his life.

“You saved his life,” Tyler realizes. “You were there. If you weren't...”

But he can't go there, can't even consider it. What might've happened, if Posey hadn't run out of patience exactly then.

How close they both came to _losing_ —

He closes his eyes, leans his head against the heel of his hand like he can push all this away with enough concentration.

“I wanna see him,” he says. “Is that—alright? Can I—”

“He's in love with you,” Posey says. “Isn't he?”

“I made a mistake,” Tyler says. His palms are sweating. “A really idiotic, selfish mistake. I, I don't know if he'd wanna see me.”

“You cheated?” Posey says, his voice suddenly alive and razor-sharp.

“No,” Tyler says, shocked. “No, nothing like—I wouldn't _do_ that. No,” he says again, shaken. “Terminal, I read with him. And then _I_ got the offer, and it went to my head. I knew how upset he was,” Tyler tries to explain. Posey's silence feels like disbelief. “When he thought he didn't get it the first time. Before he made the video. And then I got it, and all I could think about was—”

“Jesus fuck, shut up,” Posey says, unimpressed. “So you're five percent human. Congratulations.”

“Wow,” Tyler says. His ears should be ringing right now, but he can't bring himself to give a damn. “Was it,” he says, hating even considering this, “intentional?”

“It's not drugs,” Posey says. “I know that's what everyone's saying. It's all crap.”

“So then,” Tyler says. “It's just a random—just some freak—” He can't fathom it. Forget everything happening for a reason, forget mysterious ways, all that too-easy platitude crap, there has to be an answer somewhere. Just because he doesn't know it doesn't mean there isn't one.

It's just that he can't imagine an answer that would make any of this even a little bit more bearable.

“Cardiac arrest? I don't know,” Posey says. “There was something about, uh, potassium, and electrolytes. Re—Refeeding syndrome? Who knows. They think he has an eating disorder.”

“An,” Tyler says, and runs out of words. “Based on what?”

“Yeah, that's the part I don't get,” Posey says. “I mean, besides _all of it_. He's never given a shit about how he looks, right? Did I just miss it?”

“He was sick,” Tyler realizes, going hollow. “Vomiting. That's why he couldn't talk. And I wouldn't let him—”

“If you make this about you, I'm hanging up,” Posey says. “I wasn't there either. I didn't even know he was sick. I think that's worse.”

“How's that worse,” Tyler says. He's dizzy with guilt, vision fogging. “You didn't know there was something wrong.”

“Because he's my best friend, asshole,” Posey says. “And he stopped talking to me for a month. Of course there was something wrong.”

 

“Whoa, boy,” Camille says, steadying Tyler by the arm as he stumbles out of his trailer. “You okay? Don't say 'fine.'”

“No,” Tyler admits. “No, nothing's—I can't talk right now.” Parking, where'd he park his car? Where'd he park his fucking, fucking, fucking—

“Stop,” Camille says. “Dude, take a breath. You look like you're about to fall over.”

“Do I,” Tyler says disinterestedly, and attempts to walk past her.

“Okay, wait,” Camille says, grabbing his wrist. Tyler goes absolutely still. “Just wait a second. This is about Dylan, isn't it? He's really holding that dumb movie against—”

“He's in the hospital,” Tyler says. He's going to burst into flames any second now. “He stopped breathing. He could've _died_ , and I—” He breathes out, hard, and his eyes fill.

“Shit,” Camille says, her fingers slipping down around his. “Tyler. I'm so sorry. What do you need?”

“I need to get out of here,” Tyler says, choking on nothing. “I need to find my _fucking_ car and get the _fuck_ —”

“You're not driving like this,” Camille says. She's still holding his hand; she gives it a reassuring squeeze, pats his side. “No way. I'll drive.”

 

Dylan's stable. That's the first thing Posey says, and then every doctor Tyler can get a hold of, trying to make sense of it.

He's hooked up to a heart monitor, a pulse oximeter, an IV drip. He's been run through half a dozen tests. Tyler's about as familiar with the terminology as an extra on General Hospital.

But Dylan's stable. He's alive. All of this could be a lot worse.

He's not unconscious. That's the second thing. _Don't worry, it's not a coma. He's just passed out._

Tyler tries checking the monitor for some kind of reassurance, but just ends up squinting himself into a headache. His vision is foggier than ever. He can barely count his own fingers.

“What's wrong with you?” Posey asks, when Tyler starts fishing around the vicinity of his eyeballs.

“Contacts,” Tyler says. “Or sudden blindness. Either one's a possibility.”

It feels wrong joking with Dylan like this, with everything suddenly so fragile like this. Tyler takes a sharp breath.

“He's gonna be okay,” Posey says. There's a sudden arm around Tyler's shoulders, bracing.

Mom would say, _From your lips to God's ears._ Tyler can't unclench his jaw.

“He's strong,” Posey says, and pats him on the back, and Tyler closes his eyes.

 

“Maybe wash your face,” Posey suggests. “'Cause between the two of you? You look worse.”

Tyler frowns at him, reaches up and touches—oh. He's still got the silicone scar application and a crumbling layer of fake blood slathered over his skin. Tommy trips over a rotating saw in the opening scene, carves his forehead and cheek open like the Joker. Last scene he finds himself buried alive, suffocating. Skin crawling, there's something crawling on his skin. He reaches up, swipes it away, and the image rushes to extreme zoom, maggots pouring from the wound.

It's a good reveal, the slow-dimming realization that Kara's been fighting this thing all on her own. Instant rewatch value, going back to every scene you thought Tommy was helping her, or talking to her, and realizing she had no idea. It's a good ending. Tyler liked the original ending.

The new sides take it further. Tommy's a malevolent spirit, a poltergeist. He's the thing they're all running from.

It's a cool twist, except for the part where it makes no sense at all.

Camille's in the hall, doing a Sudoku on her phone. She looks up when Tyler approaches, taps to pause the clock.

“How are you doing?” she says.

“He's stable,” Tyler says.

“Good,” Camille says. “I'm glad. But that's not what I asked.”

“I messed up,” Tyler says. “I should've been there. I should've—I _was_ there. I should've put it all together. Gotten him help.”

“You're not his only friend,” Camille says. “No one saw this coming. How could you?”

“He let me in,” Tyler says. “He trusted me. Told me things. And I just dismissed all of it.”

_How do you—I mean, just be happy. Without getting distracted, you know?_

_Self loathing, mostly. With just like a side of random minutiae-fed anxiety._

_Welcome to my head, I guess. Just, on any given day_.

_This isn't a logical thing. I know that._

_I'm not looking at methods._

_I'm fine_.

Fine, fine, fine.

Tyler can't stomach the word anymore.

 


	13. i missed you

“I didn't _pass out_ , whoa,” Dylan says. “So _dramatic_. I got a little lightheaded, that's all.”

Is waking up in a hospital bed again a surprise? Maybe a little bit. But Dylan was enjoying that bathroom floor, okay, this is his life. If he wants to crash in prime puking position, nice cool linoleum against his skin, what's the crime in that?

“You were unconscious,” Posey says.

“I was napping,” Dylan says. “Closed my eyes for a second. _Jeez_.”

“It wasn't a second,” Tyler says.

Dylan groans, shuts his eyes so hard he sees constellations.

“You're in the hospital,” Tyler says. “You could've died. This isn't a joke.”

“Not my fault you have no sense of humor,” Dylan says. He risks a peek through low-lidded eyes: Tyler's not even blinking at the bait, just looking like a freakin' concerned parent trying not to sigh. A week ago Dylan was feelin' this guy up on the regular. Now he's pretty much his sponsor.

Dylan kind of wants to die.

“You can talk to me, man,” Posey says. “Or one of the doctors—they're here to help you.”

“Or we can find someone,” Tyler says. “An expert. You don't have to deal with this alone.”

There's a steady headache thumping away just between Dylan's eyes. Steady nausea rising all through him.

He shuts his mouth hard, doesn't say anything.

 

Tyler goes to get coffee; Posey needs an emergency shit. These are the things Dylan's friends apologize for, now. This is what his life has become.

The cutest girl Dylan has ever seen drops by in the meantime to see how he's doing. Tyler's been really worried about you, she says.

“Yeah? Right back at him,” Dylan says. “Who are you?”

“Camille Rodriguez,” says Camille Rodriguez, apparently. “I'm a friend of Tyler's.”

“Coolio,” Dylan says. “Well, nice meeting you.”

“He still hasn't answered her,” Camille says. “Emma whoever. Not a single tweet.”

“I told him to take it,” Dylan says, shrugging. It's like this weird twitch: he means to, and then he doesn't, and it's happening without him. Wonderful, he's making a fantastic impression on Tyler's obviously much more appropriate love interest.

“He _idolizes_ you,” Camille says. “Don't you get that? He'd do anything for you. Throw his whole life away.”

“I don't know what you want me to say,” Dylan says. He hits his itching shoulder still, super casually transitions to rubbing the back of his neck. The weird plastic clothespin thing on his finger makes a surprisingly good back-scratcher.

“You're an actor,” Camille says. “Allegedly. So Tyler got a job you wanted, so what? Do you love him or don't you? _Let him have this_.”

“Whoa, 'allegedly,'” Dylan says. “Someone get me some ice for this burn, am I right? Call a doctor, because I am, I am _down_.”

“I don't know what he sees in you,” Camille says. “But—”

“It's my beard, mostly,” Dylan says. “Very covert. Slightly reminiscent of pubic hair. Lured the poor guy in like a beacon.”

“But if it's even a shred of empathy,” Camille says, unimpressed, “then stop him from pushing away the biggest break he's gonna get.”

“Now he just stares longingly at my chin, hoping—no, _praying_ for the day he'll catch a glimpse of it again,” Dylan says, really warming up to a theme. “Sometimes he just gazes out a window and thinks back to the time when he and my beard were together. Those fond, yet bittersweet memories.”

“Just think about it,” Camille says. “If you care about him at all.”

“'Patchy,' he still calls into the dark, moonlit night,” Dylan calls out at her as she goes. “'Patchy, please. We could be something!'”

She doesn't turn around.

 

The paps try to corner Tyler on reentry; now Dylan's spaztastic breakdown is a full-fledged walk-through experience. Posey puts security on the door, like Dylan's hospital room is an exclusive nightclub, or whatever other gig has a dude at the door doing security. Dylan's not the biggest partier, himself, unless you're basing it all on the morning after. Then he's the coolest cat in town. Real Carlos Danger, over here. Rodney Dangerfield. Danger, choking hazard. May contain small parts.

“So, Camille,” he says, when Tyler resurfaces from behind his coffee. He got permission to get Dylan milk. This is life on the edge, people: permission for milk. Punk rock theme song! “She's fun.”

“You met her?” Tyler says.

Dylan can't fault milk, actually; you don't realize how much your mouth tastes like horse balls until it doesn't, anymore.

“While you were out,” he says. “You never responded to Emma Donoghue?”

“And I won't,” Tyler promises. “I told you. I'll tell my agent too. Thanks but no thanks.”

“That's not what I want, man,” Dylan says. He feels kind of sick. “You deserve this shot, don't be stupid.”

“I've made up my mind,” Tyler says. “I'm done confusing my priorities.”

“It's not either/or,” Dylan says.

“I almost lost you,” Tyler says, and Dylan just about passes out from the intensity in his voice. “I don't care about anything else. _Anything_.”

“That's,” Dylan says, trying not to wheeze. “That's really, um.” He might be the hardest he's ever been. “Shit.”

“What is it?” Tyler asks.

“Who knew I had a caring kink,” Dylan says. “I mean, you're always so fucking nice—”

He instantly regrets it; Tyler looks horrified.

“I'm not,” Tyler says. “I'm not trying to—I'm sorry.”

“Dude,” Dylan says, his face flaming. What did he say? Not a clue. Doesn't matter, it was clearly terrible. “We can just, why don't we just pretend I never said that? Objection, sustained, jury will disregard.”

“No,” Tyler says. “That's not what I'm saying. You don't owe me anything.”

“Sure,” Dylan says. “I'm just gonna put this out there: I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm not a nice guy,” Tyler says, like a much, much more attractive, but also very wrong Edward Cullen.

“Uh huh,” Dylan says. “My mistake. All this time I've been totally blind to all the ways you're a selfish asshole. You know what they say about love. And justice. And Stevie Wonder.”

“What?” Tyler says.

“They're blind,” Dylan says.

Tyler doesn't even roll his eyes.

“When was the last time you slept?” Dylan says.

“I'm,” Tyler says. He swallows. “I'm not tired.”

“You're something,” Dylan says.

“I want you to tell me,” Tyler says. “If I'm pressuring you. I'll back off.”

“Pressuring me to what?” Dylan says. This is it, this is the moment where Dylan's—whatever's wrong with him—goes nuclear and starts taking over the world like H1N1 was supposed to. “Take a breath, Ty, everything's gonna be okay.”

“I'm—” Tyler shakes his head. “Don't worry about me.”

“No, listen,” Dylan says. The milk is maybe going rancid in his throat. “This whole thing, all my shit? It's not on you. You didn't sign up for this.”

“I'm signing up now,” Tyler says. He takes Dylan's hand in both of his, holds his gaze. “I'm gonna be here. Whatever you need.”

“I just wanna go back to how things were,” Dylan says. He's a little lightheaded just looking Tyler in the face. “Y'know, pretend I'm still somewhat attractive. If you squint.”

“Dylan,” Tyler says, helplessly. “That's—You have to know you're attractive. I don't know how you can dispute that.”

He's doing that face, that serious-eyed Derek face, but combined with his Passionate Romantic Lead face. And this—this is just one more example. Tyler hasn't slept in a day, maybe two. Hasn't showered or shaved or switched clothes, and he still looks ready to represent at the Inhumanly Hot People/Gods Awards. Dylan doesn't even wanna think about how he looks right now. Pale and pube-stubbly and dark circles like two black eyes, sweaty hair and probably herpe-ish acne, some super flattering open-assed hospital gown, a million moles everywhere. This is why it's so fucking insane for anyone to think Dylan's trying to keep up; the only thing he and Hoechlin have in common are how they've been tearing up, which just brings out the green in Tyler's eyes.

“It's a mystery,” Dylan says.

“You are,” Tyler says, looking disturbed. “Of course you're attractive. You can't seriously—How do you not know that?”

“Because I'm funny,” Dylan says, tired of this. “You know what they say, everyone wants a guy with a sense of—”

“And funny,” Tyler says, looking at him seriously. “But that's not—You're beautiful.” The tips of his ears go red, then the rest of him. “Handsome,” he amends. “Hot. All of it.”

“America's Next Top Model,” Dylan suggests, doing a little hospital bed booty tooch, flexing nonexistent abs.

“I'm serious,” Tyler says. “I wouldn't just—butter you up, you know that.”

“Do I know that?” Dylan asks. “I've called you hot approximately six billion times. You started thinking I was _beautiful_ , lets see, uh,” he checks the invisible watch on his wrist, “four seconds ago.”

“Don't play stupid,” Tyler says. “I know you get come-ons on Twitter all the time. There are huge masses of people in love with you.”

“For being funny,” Dylan says. “For being Stiles.”

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Tyler bursts out, heaving a massive sigh, shaking his head. “That too. But—everything, everything I see in you, they see it too. I'm not—You're the only one who doesn't see how amazing you are.”

“Yeah, you always say stuff like that,” Dylan says. “Just not about my—looks, or—”

“Because I thought it was obvious,” Tyler says. “Because that's—” He ducks his head, scoffs at his knees. “That's all anyone ever has to say, with me.” He aims a glare at the floor, adds, slightly mockingly, “'At least he's pretty.'” A tight smile slips back into place, goes almost natural. “So it—doesn't really feel like a compliment, anymore. Like, thanks? Thank my parents, I guess.”

“C'mon,” Dylan says, a little helplessly. “That's—I never meant it like that.”

“No, I know,” Tyler says, still sounding fake as hell, like he's doing some interview.

“I swear,” Dylan says. “Your attractiveness is like, sixth on the list of reasons why anyone'd have to be an idiot not to like you.”

“Really,” Tyler says dubiously.

“Swear to god,” Dylan says. “Like, first of all, Mets cred. Day one. And have I _mentioned_ stealing scenes from Tom Hanks? At like, what, fourteen?”

“I didn't _steal_...” Tyler starts. Dylan raises his eyebrows in challenge. “What scene?”

“Okay, so that part where he comes into Michael's room and hugs him? And there's, like, all this baggage between them, it's crazy. But he's still your dad.” Dylan looks at Tyler, who's suddenly stock still, mouth caught open, just watching him. “And then, that last scene? Just before the voice-over kicks in. Broke my fucking _heart_ , man.”

“You're just—”

“Don't even, dude,” Dylan says. “If I have to learn to take a compliment, so do you. In fact, I'm making up for lost time, right now. Why do you think I liked Derek so much? I'm serious. It wasn't Jeff giving him all of two character traits, okay, it was you. What you brought to it.”

Tyler's blushing so bad he's practically luminescent, staring at his sneakers, then back up at Dylan, searching his face for a hint of a lie.

“That's why it pissed me off so bad when he threw out our scenes,” Dylan says. “Your scenes. Like we really need that hundredth make-out session more than actually letting Derek be hum—well not human, I guess, but—you know what I mean. With his mom, or—any of it. Or bringing in that de-aging stuff, and just _wasting_ you, what was _that_?”

Tyler's eyes are bright green, and just bright, but he's still got this awful look on his face, like he's ready to laugh if this turns out to be some long-winded joke.

“You know what I think?” Dylan says. “I think he was trying to prove he didn't need you to have Derek on the show. That he could go back to writing the story he wanted, without Sterek, or any of your ideas—”

Tyler's face falls, drags Dylan's gut with it.

“He _couldn't_ ,” Dylan says. “Even with Ian—that kid does a scary good impression of your mannerisms, it's unreal—even with him, he couldn't do it. He couldn't replace you. Couldn't even come close.” He levers himself upright, palms at Tyler's tensed shoulder. “I just missed you, Ty. It drove me insane, you know? Him trying to fill this hole you left like that, with mini-you and Malia and all this two-bit shit. It never made any fucking sense.”

“People seemed to like it,” Tyler says. “My last episodes. I didn't have to be Derek, or act, or anything. Just—on screen. In bed, or—”

“I couldn't watch it,” Dylan says. “With Braeden, right, she's—great, y'know, that pool cue intro was actually really bad-ass, but, like—Why's Derek suddenly such a suave relationships guy? Didn't he _just_ get out of being mind-raped by Jennifer?”

“I know!” Tyler says. “And Kate, and Braeden's worked for hunters.”

“Shit,” Dylan says feelingly. “And Stiles—like, I get it, he's a teenager, but—Holland's dating a cop. And Danny had a full-on sex scene with like, the identical dynamics, so—”

“And your scene,” Tyler says. “'I missed you.' You came up with that.”

“That's not even,” Dylan says. “Stiles beat up Scott for letting his dad get hurt. I almost walked off set.”

“And Scott let him,” Tyler guesses. “Held him.”

“'It's okay, Stiles, you can hit me,'” Dylan says. “'I can take it.'” He makes a face. “I've never been such a crabby little bitch in front of Tyler before. Like, 'don't even touch me, I can't—'”

“I love you,” Tyler breathes. “I should have texted it back. I should've—Talking's hard, sometimes. I knew that.”

“Saint Hoechlin,” Dylan says. “Bullet point three. You're so _considerate_.”

“Shut up,” Tyler says, ears pinking, head ducking down.

“Like, too much,” Dylan says. “Did you see that video? Like, your side of it. How _perfect_ you were. Playing some Coachella-reject soccer mom, and making it literally the saddest thing I've ever seen. But in the best way.”

“Don't—” Tyler says.

“What, blaspheme the sacred name of Dylan?” Dylan asks. “You were better than me, Ty. I'm not being fucking humble, I'm saying I'll be pissed if you don't take the fucking job. 'Cause I wanna see that movie.”

“I'm busy,” Tyler says. “I'm gonna be here, and then... Harvest is gonna take at least a few weeks to wrap, even if this is the last draft. And then there's press for Vertigo—the spy one,” he reminds Dylan. “And I don't even—I'll blow it off for you. Not for some dumb—”

“ _You're_ dumb,” says Dylan O'Brien, famed witticist. “You can't put your whole life on hold trying to make me happy, man. That's not how happy works.”

“Fine,” Tyler says. “I'll take it. If you talk to someone.”

“Yo,” Dylan says, and smirks at him. “Done. No takebacks.”

“You know what I mean,” Tyler says, but he's laughing.

For a moment, the tsunami in Dylan's gut almost settles.

 


	14. merry chranukwanza

“I'd say if I spent one more day in this room I'll lose my mind, but,” Dylan says brightly.

Tyler looks up, swallows a frown. “You didn't lose your mind.”

“Then I'm about to,” Dylan says. “I'm, like, legit going The Yellow Wallpaper here. Or getting Charles Bonnet Syndrome, I don't know.”

Tyler sighs. “Stop diagnosing yourself.”

“What, I'm the only one who doesn't get a try?” Dylan says. His tone is light, expression teasing, but Tyler's careful anyway. He can't shake the feeling this conversation is a mousetrap, about to snap shut and decapitate him any minute.

Yesterday Dr. Adams suggested a support group. It's mostly people in recovery from anorexia or bulimia, he said, but there are a few EDNOS cases too.

“There's a Christmas classic ruined,” Dylan said. “Rudolph the EDNOS reindeer. Poor guy can't take being picked on and starves himself to death. Happy holidays, kids.”

“Some people find it very helpful,” Dr. Adams said, ignoring that. “It's common to think no one understands what you're going through. That sharing your innermost feelings would just push people away. That's simply not true in a support group.”

“Or at all,” Tyler said. He couldn't help giving the doctor a judgmental look before focusing back on Dylan, who was nodding like an automaton, a smile fixed on his face. “It wouldn't push me away. Or Tyler. Or anyone who isn't a jerk.”

“Ooh, 'jerk,'” Dylan said. “Hoechlin's feeling naughty today. Might take Gosh's name in vain, next.”

It looks like normal teasing, sounds funny enough, until it isn't. And Tyler has no idea what to do, then, what to say, when Dylan looks down at nothing, mutters, “I get it, okay. You don't have to humor me.”

Tyler's just looking at him, trying to formulate some kind of response, and Dylan says, his voice too quiet, “I know how much it weirds you out that we ever—Now that it's so fucking obvious how pathetic I am. You don't have to sit by my bedside like I'm some superfan dying of a brain tumor. You can just move on with your life.”

What do you say to that? What's the right response? Tyler doesn't know, but he's sure he's getting it wrong. Sometimes they have whole conversations and they're fine, Dylan even seems happy, but then he gets quiet, and his jokes aren't jokes anymore, and Tyler can't convince him they're real anymore, that this isn't some—good deed he's doing, charity work. “Saint Hoechlin,” Dylan says, and it doesn't mean anything good, it means stop lying. Stop being so fucking nice. Punch me in the face and storm out and never come back, then maybe I'll finally believe you.

“I love you,” Tyler says, and tries not to get too emotional, make this about himself. It's too easy, something in him tensing, then the lump in his throat; too easy to get distracted by your own feelings, but he can't. That's not what this is, it's not personal. Dylan doesn't mean it like that.

Whatever Tyler's feeling, whatever's welling through him, any kind of fear or insecurity, it's nothing compared to what Dylan's own mind is doing to him. And Tyler can't stop it, can't turn it around. Can't grab that dark part of Dylan and shake him, say, Stop it, stop it. Stop this. I love you, can't you trust me? What do I have to do?

Eyes prickling even thinking about it, tension in his shoulders, the shadow of that old twitch. But Tyler just needs to power through it. Be here, no matter what.

Anyone can say anything. Actions speak louder.

“You think you have to say that,” Dylan says. “Just in case you dumped me and I offed myself. But I'm not your responsibility, dude. Go live your life, seriously.”

“Is that,” Tyler says, watching his face, trying to—He's never said it so seriously, like it could really happen. And all at once Tyler's sure he means it. That it's really a possibility. “Promise me you won't.”

And Dylan just—nods, like that confirmed some deep-seated suspicion, _exactly_. “Don't worry, Ty, I couldn't do that to you. I know how much you care.”

The worst part of that is how bad Tyler wants to believe it.

And how sure he is that that would be the worst mistake he's ever made.

 

Posey comes back with Dylan's laptop. Tyler should've thought of that. He can't believe he didn't. Of course Dylan's feeling low, worse than ever, when there's nothing to do all day but watch TV and think and overthink. Understimulation—even Tyler has his phone. Camille's sent about a thousand texts. Pages and pages of animated stickers. A couple of selfies, usually her reacting to an especially awkward line in the new sides. Voice messages of her reading them while doing various celebrity impressions. Her Nicki Minaj is especially poignant.

Brittany's almost done with press and wants to get together. Colton and Ian are either tentatively dating or pulling an incredibly elaborate prank. Either way, it wouldn't be the first time.

The point is, Tyler's had his fill of social interaction. Dylan's just had him, and Posey, usually trying to get him to talk about something depressing. And somehow he's feeling depressed? Go figure.

Dylan's phone bleeps. Tyler nods to it.

“You gonna get that?”

“Nope,” Dylan says cheerfully.

“I think you should get it,” Tyler says. “Could be important.”

“I am officially letting the other shoe drop without me,” Dylan says. “If the plane's going down, I'm keeping my eyes shut, thanks.”

Tyler says nothing, just brings his phone toward his face theatrically and sends another message.

Dylan's phone bleeps again.

Dylan looks at it. Looks at Tyler, who should be winning a Razzie for his interpretation of Man Intently Texting.

“Seriously?”

“Uh uh,” Tyler says. “I can't hear you. I'm trapped behind this soundproof glass wall.” He puts his free hand up and around, patting the air, mime style.

Dylan stares at him.

“It's too bad Dylan can't hear me,” Tyler stage-mutters, maybe blushing a little bit by now. “I just had this really cool idea for our movie. Thought we could talk about it.”

“I really worry about you sometimes,” Dylan says, but he's thisclose to laughing.

“Mmhm,” Tyler hums. “I know Dylan can't hear me, and I'm not busy texting, so I guess I'll just... sing myself a little song.”

“No,” Dylan says, disbelieving. “I have never heard you sing. I don't think you know how.”

“You're right,” Tyler says, smirking. “Is what I would say if anyone told me I couldn't sing. I can't. But why should that stop me?”

“I can't,” Dylan says, picking up his phone. “I can't, I can't enable this. I'll never be able to take you seriously again.”

“Serious is overrated,” Tyler says, but he doesn't go through with it. Singing really isn't one of his talents. He's been told this by people who normally would lie to semi-famous people if they were, say, anything above painful at it.

His phone vibrates in his hand. He checks it, looks up at Dylan, who's furiously thumbing at his screen. Tyler's phone vibrates again.

Tyler grins.

 

Disaster strikes when Dylan searches his name on Twitter, finds some gossip roundup article. He and Tyler are fake, “Gossip King” says. A “reliable source” says it was just PR for his “desperate YouTube audition.” That he knows his career is going down in flames, and he'd do anything to resurrect it—even gay baiting. That Tyler, his own career stagnant for years, is all too happy to play along for the cameras.

“That's not,” Tyler says. It takes a few seconds to swallow the bile in his throat. “That's garbage, you know that.”

“This isn't,” Dylan says, and scrolls down. The blind item's been updated, solved. The conclusion? It was all a wasted effort. Terminal's official Twitter account, @Terminalthemovie, “quietly congratulated Alex Saxon a few hours ago.”

There's a link, and there it is.

 **Terminal** @TerminalTheMovie

[   **Felicity** **Jones** @FelicityJonesOfficial:

      @ALXSXN welcome to the family :)  ]

With no “official contract” in play, Gossip King surmises, “expect a breakup within the next few months. Sorry, Hobrien fans. Some things really are too good to be true.”

“'Ho—'?” Tyler starts.

“Us,” Dylan says. “Like Sterek's Stiles and Derek. And that's not real either.”

“I wanted it to be,” Tyler says.

“Yeah,” Dylan says, but he's gone quiet again.

 

“You have to respond to her,” Dylan announces. Tyler's been texting him, trying that same joke again, with no success. Dylan just curled into a ball on his side, turned away. But now he sits up, animated. “Emma Donoghue. Blame me, say you haven't checked Twitter in weeks, do whatever. Just get her back on your side.”

“I'll try,” Tyler says. “But if I can't—it's okay. We'll write something better.”

“What?” Dylan says blankly.

“Our movie,” Tyler says. “You and me. That's what we should focus on.”

It's not enough; Dylan's still nervy, his hands trembling a little bit.

“I want you to direct,” Tyler decides.

“What? No way,” Dylan says, lighting up with panic. “I've never even—I always thought I'd watch the greats, you know? For years and years. Pick it up that way.” His expression goes thoughtful for a second, but he shakes his head. “You can't just jump in.”

“You did,” Tyler says. “With Stiles. You didn't need training, you were a natural. And you've already directed me into the best performance I've done in fourteen years,” he points out. “Maybe ever. I trust you.”

“You're ridiculous,” Dylan says, staring at him. “How are you even, like, _real_. And not some insane fantasy, I don't...”

“No one ever got me there before you,” Tyler says.

Dylan's eyes bug. “ _Really?_ ”

“No,” Tyler says, smirking. “See? I'm not a fantasy. I'm—”

“An _asshole_ ,” Dylan grouches.

“You love it,” Tyler says, unconvinced.

“Yeah, I do,” Dylan says.

 

“It could be real,” Tyler says. “Stiles and Derek. We could do it. Not for cameras,” he adds quickly, thinking of the awful Gossip King post. “Just... for us. You said it yourself, our scenes were better than the ones that made it.”

“Stiles is dead,” Dylan says.

“Not anymore,” Tyler says. “Derek just resurrected him. He's, he's a werecreature now. Not a werewolf,” he redirects, at the look on Dylan's face. “Something new. You decide.”

“I liked him human,” Dylan says. “Vulnerable, you know? But still strong. Just—the stakes kind of disappear if you can just keep coming back.”

“So he never died,” Tyler says. “The whole thing was a trick. A lie Scott told some—the hunters who hurt your dad, he was protecting you. And really Stiles is in some safehouse somewhere.”

“Training,” Dylan says. “With Derek?”

“Of course,” Tyler says, nodding.

“And like drop-in visits from Braeden, and Cora. Who are hooking up,” Dylan adds, grinning. “Super casual, supposedly, but in actuality, leaking feelings everywhere.”

“Derek's kind of wary about it, because Braeden's worked with hunters,” Tyler says.

“And Cora basically hugs him and then flips him off about it,” Dylan says. “And, and it turns out they've got all this history, you know? Like, that's why Braeden rescued Derek that time, or—”

“Or gave Lydia and Allison that mark,” Tyler bursts out. “The, the bank logo. Leading Derek to Erica and Boyd. And Cora.”

“Holy shit,” Dylan says, eyes wide. “You're a fucking genius, you know that?”

Tyler goes hot, smiles down at nothing.

“I'm serious,” Dylan says. “You're incredible. You should write the show, man, not—”

“I'd rather do this,” Tyler says. “Just us, talking. No executive edits.”

“Stiles wouldn't be okay with just leaving Beacon Hills,” Dylan says, after some thought. “Leaving his dad alone. Exposed.”

“It was his idea,” Tyler says. “Trying to keep his kid out of trouble. Getting kidnapped really drilled into him how serious all of this is, he's not taking no for an answer. And he's not alone, he's got the pack. And Argent.”

“Ugh, Argent,” Dylan says, making a face. “The hunters who hurt my Pops, they have a talk with him, right? 'Thanks for being such a brilliant double agent.' He's not,” Dylan clarifies, at Tyler's raised eyebrows. “They just think he is. Because he's such a speciest dick.”

“Speciest,” Tyler says.

“He hates werewolves,” Dylan says. “Not just the bad ones. He stuck a gun in Scott's face! Like three times. Shot him with arrows, shot _you_ —He's not a good guy,” Dylan concludes. “He's just not an outright psychopath.”

“I think he's grown,” Tyler says. “Over the seasons.”

“Yeah, so has Peter,” Dylan says. “He's still skeevy.”

Tyler has to admit he has a point.

“So yeah, these hunters think he's like, this double agent,” Dylan says. “So he _is_. But exactly the opposite way.”

Tyler nods, impressed.

“But like, it's his first time kind of realizing,” Dylan says. “What a bigot he is. And what that looks like, and, like—” Dylan shakes his head. “He actually—feels a little shitty, you know? And goes to Derek, like, apologetic. And Derek just, like, rebuffs him. 'Don't worry about it.' Because you can't just _apologize_ for shit like that.”

“'Sorry I made fun of your dead family,'” Tyler agrees.

“Exactly,” Dylan says. “You have to earn it. So that's his character arc, you know? The road to self awareness. And actually being a good guy, not just being called one.”

“I like it,” Tyler says. “I bet JR would too.”

“The fans,” Dylan says. “Maybe.” He snickers. “We should write fanfiction.”

Tyler shrugs.

“But like, good,” Dylan says. “Character-true. Like the show.” He considers, corrects himself. “More than the show. No, like, random sexy make-out scenes all over the place.”

“Except ironic ones,” Tyler suggests. “Coach Finstock and Gerard Argent. Someone just pulls open a broom closet, there they are. Shuts it again seconds later.”

“Definitely,” Dylan says, cracking up. “Peter and Chris. Forbidden love.”

“Speaking of,” Tyler says. “Have Ian and Colton texted you recently?”

“Why,” Dylan says. His eyes go wide. “ _Again_? I thought that was, like, way over.”

“It could be a prank,” Tyler admits. He pulls out his phone, taps into his Instagram messages. “You tell me.”

“No, dude,” Dylan says, after some examination. “That's real. No question.”

“Yeah?” Tyler says.

“Are you kidding? Colton keeps joking,” Dylan says. “Like, if it was a prank, he'd be selling it, right? Looking super serious, super invested. But it's not, so it's just the opposite. He's playing it down, trying not to freak out.”

“Ah,” Tyler says. He frowns. “What if someone's just sincere?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if things just are what they look like?” Tyler asks. “If people just—say they care, and mean it. No games.”

“That would be weird,” Dylan says. He looks at Tyler, goes pink. “Not _bad_ weird,” he expounds hurriedly. “Just hard to get used to.”

“So if I—pretended I didn't love you,” Tyler hypothesizes. “You'd know I do. Somehow.”

“Probably not,” Dylan admits. “It's kind of impossible to see outside yourself. No distance.”

“So then—” Tyler starts, and sighs. “How do I prove it?”

“Marry me?” Dylan suggests. Tyler's heart jumps. “I'm kidding,” Dylan adds, almost immediately. “Obviously.”

Right, right. Just another joke.

It's fine.


	15. credible/incredible

Suddenly Tyler's Sterek-obsessed: He's constantly texting Dylan prompts, starting furious texting sprees between them. Pretty soon, Dylan's straight-up writing whole scenes, real fanfiction—but like, good fanfiction, you know? Like character-true stuff, not porn. Not that there's anything wrong with porn.

Maybe he writes a little bit of porn.

He keeps that to himself, though, shows Tyler the serious stuff. Stiles and Derek trapped when this brainwashed hunter kid finds them, guns blazing, threatening to shoot Stiles full of wolfsbane. It's a bottle episode, tensions high all the way through. Stiles starts off wisecracking like none of it matters, and Derek starts off being all dark and threaten-y, but he and Stiles both kind of realize that that's not gonna work this time. That this really might be the end of the road. So Stiles asks for his one phone call.

“What?” Hunter asks.

“You're arresting me,” Stiles says. “Hey, my dad's the sheriff. I know my rights. You wanna bag and tag me, I get a phone call first.”

“You don't have any _rights_ ,” Hunter sneers. “You're an animal.”

“Actually, no, nope, I'm not,” Stiles says. “Homo sapien, right here. Human person.”

“You got bit,” Hunter says. “You didn't die. That means you're a monster.”

Derek snarls.

“Heyy, okay,” Stiles says, shooting him a _stay cool_ look. “I didn't get bit. I'll prove it,” he offers, and pulls out his knife. Hunter tenses, finger twitching on the trigger, but Stiles rolls up his pants leg, cuts a line across his skin. Blood beads and spills down his knee. The wound stays open. “See? No supernatural healing powers. What'd I tell you.”

Behind him, Derek's face is murderous.

“You ran,” Hunter challenges, but less certainly. He looks over at Derek, who's a magnet at Stiles' side, black ink already running up his arm. “To be with this?”

“You blame me?” Stiles says. “Derek has _painkilling hands_. Do you have any idea how often I get banged up trying to keep my family alive? Hint: We haven't had sex yet, but I can guarantee his stamina is _incredible_.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, ears pinking adorably.

“Don't be humble, honey,” Stiles says, patting his shoulder. “He really is, though. Do you know how many times this guy has put himself in danger to save someone else? Like, way too many times. You need to cut it out, I'm serious,” he tells Derek. “Scares the shit out of me. _And_ no one ever appreciates it,” he adds. “Does he ever get thank you notes? Complementary gift baskets? Even _one_ Edible Arrangement?” He shakes his head sadly. “No, no he does not. You know what he _does_ get? Shot. Stabbed. Poisoned, kidnapped, gutted, kidnapped _again_ , de-aged—”

“De-aged,” Hunter says dubiously.

“You don't even wanna know, man,” Stiles says. “And that's the abridged list. The extended edition makes Dostoevsky look like a leaflet.”

“He's a killer,” Hunter says. “So are you.”

“So are you, I bet,” Stiles says. Hunter doesn't deny it. Stiles fights back a shiver. “See? We're two sides of the same coin, man.”

“I don't kill innocents,” Hunter says. “I _exterminate_ —”

“EX-TER-MIIN-AAATE!” Stiles blares. “Sorry, old instinct. You were saying?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, quietly warning.

“How _old_ are you?” Hunter asks.

“Literally? Eighteen,” Stiles says. “Personality wise? Somewhere between five and fifty.”

“Just let Stiles go,” Derek says, stepping in front of him. “He's not the one you want.”

“Are you seriously martyring yourself right now?” Stiles says, grabbing his arm, trying to spin them back around. Derek doesn't budge. “Does nothing I say matter to you?”

“Not as much as you do,” Derek says.

Stiles blinks at him. “Well that's... candid.”

“I want you to know,” Derek says, quietly. “Even if we run out of time.”

“That's not gonna happen,” Stiles says, trying to bite down on the sudden flash of fear. Derek doesn't talk like this. He doesn't give up.

“If there's one thing I've learned,” Derek says, “it's that the people I care about aren't safe. That I'm not safe.” His gaze goes from intense to faraway, and back again. “Not for long.”

“Don't,” Stiles pleads with him. “We always make it through. That's our _thing_. I'm all doom and gloom, and you're all, 'Shut up, Stiles. We're getting out of here, Stiles. You're gonna be alright, Stiles.'”

“You will,” Derek says. “You have Scott, and your dad. The pack. You'll take care of each other.”

“Stop it,” Stiles says, tears beading in his eyes. He rubs at them, sniffs. “You're not—I won't let you.”

“I'm not giving you a choice,” Derek says. He pushes Stiles behind him, stands tall. “I'm a werewolf,” he says. “I'm what you want. He's just a kid.”

“You're an asshole,” Stiles says shakily, but Derek doesn't respond.

“He's just a kid,” Derek repeats. “An—animal rights activist.” Slightly sardonic, despite himself. “He doesn't know what he got himself into.”

“He's eighteen,” Hunter says. “He's an adult. Legally.”

“I get a _phone call_ , jackass,” Stiles bursts out. “Legally!”

No one pays him any mind.

“Just let him go,” Derek says. “I'll come peacefully. As long as he's safe.”

He steps forward. The gun goes off. Derek roars, launches himself into the air and lands on top of Hunter, wrestling the gun from his hands and throwing it across the room.

“I really don't enjoy killing,” he says, matter-of-factly. His eyes are halogen blue; he's hunched over Hunter like he's easy prey. Dead meat. “But you and I, we understand. When it comes to your family, you can't let that get in the way.”

“Please,” Hunter says. Without his weapon, he's a scared kid, trembling. “Please, don't.”

“Why not,” Derek says. Under sharp yellow light, eyes shining, he looks almost feral.

“B-because you don't hurt innocents,” Hunter stutters.

“You're not innocent,” Derek says.

“I—I could've killed him!” Hunter says desperately. “I could've shot him coming through the door. I didn't. I hesitated.”

Derek looks at him, considering.

“I kept hesitating,” Hunter says. “He pulled a freaking knife, man. I didn't fire. Don't you think maybe there's a reason for that?”

“I think—” Derek says, and looks down.

His shirt is dark with black blood.

 

“Cliffhanger,” Tyler says. He nods, impressed.

“I was thinking Stiles could remember the wolfsbane cure thing, you know, from season one,” Dylan says. “Kind of a nice reminder of how far they've come. And how it was kind of there from the beginning. Like, it just made sense. Right away. The banter, and the humor, and the high-stakes emotional stuff.”

“I always liked the car scenes,” Tyler says. “The Jeep, or—Those were always really fun.”

“Bashing my head on the steering wheel,” Dylan says.

“'You know what you did,'” Tyler paraphrases.

“Pimped you out,” Dylan says, laughing. “We didn't know all Derek's issues yet, we just thought it was funny.”

“I still think it was funny,” Tyler says. “Just—dark humor.”

“He just keeps getting used,” Dylan says, tsking. “Even by the good guys, they can't resist. Revictimizing.”

“Derek's used to it,” Tyler says. “That's his life.”

“His awful, depressing life,” Dylan agrees. “Poor guy can't catch a break. Not even when we write him.”

“I think things are looking up,” Tyler says. “He found his sister, he's comfortable with who he is.”

“He's suicidal,” Dylan says.

“Not actively,” Tyler says. “Only if he can save someone. I'm not suicidal, but I would still try to—”

“What, take a bullet for someone else?” Dylan says, eyebrows high.

“Maybe,” Tyler says. “If it saves a life? I don't know. If it saved you?”

“Don't,” Dylan says, going cold. “That's—don't be stupid.”

“I'm selfish,” Tyler says, too easily, too calm. “I love you. If I could—”

“Shut up,” Dylan says. He shakes his head, tries to blink the sudden fog away. “Shut up, shut up. You can't say shit like that. That you'd die for me, you can't—I'm gonna start having nightmares again.”

“It'll probably never happen,” Tyler offers.

“See, why am I not comforted by that,” Dylan says. “Like, at all.”

 

Dylan would definitely take a bullet for Tyler, probably. If he wasn't busy shitting himself with panic. But that signoff scene? He'd be a _mess_. Like, no love, no dignity. Probably screaming like a woman giving birth, or rambling about something idiotic and embarrassing. Then his famous last words would go down through history: “I literally just shit myself.” There's a nice family anecdote.

The worst part of that is how sure Dylan is that Tyler would be the complete opposite. You know, stoic, holding him through it, and like, the epitome of every romantic hero cliché. Like, strong and soothing till the end, then rocking back and forth, sobbing, refusing to leave the cold body—and what, what the actual fuck is this train of thought? This is, like, a prime example of why Dylan needs to carefully curate his public self. And never get drunk ever again, or go outside, or interact with another human being. He's enough of a social disaster as it is.

His face is literally emitting heat, pulse thumping in his throat. And seriously, Dylan needs to get hold of himself. He's hurting Hoechlin, turning him into real-life Derek with all these traumatizing moments. He's basically Kate Argent, right now. Or, or worse, Jennifer, love-spelling the guy somehow and just tearing his life apart, sucking the will to live right out of him. And Tyler just looks him right in the oozing, evil, raw-bacon-fat face, and says, “I love you. I love you. Why can't you believe me?”

He lost Terminal. _Dylan_ lost Tyler Terminal, being so moody and weird Tyler couldn't focus on anything else. He's, he's got work right now he's missing just to sit here, check his phone for the millionth time, try to Sterek Dylan into being normal again. Posey went back to work days ago. Apologizing, but it was obvious. He couldn't wait to get out of here, away from this, this train wreck Dylan's become.

Even the people who love you can only take so much, you know?

And they'll be supportive, they're always supportive, but it's obvious: your time's ticking down. Any minute now they're gonna throw their hands up, say, Some people just can't be helped. And then they fuck off, or just—check out. Or keep faking it, but grow to resent you so much you just hear all their silent little judgments over every nice thing they try to do for you, on a loop, forever. And all those sweet gestures just add up into this debt you can't possibly repay, and your head fills up with all this self loathing crap in their voices. And you just wanna fucking die. Put them out of their misery, give them their lives back.

Dylan's never actually gone through with it. Not seriously, not in any foolproof way. He's too chickenshit to actually jump off a bridge, or something, something definitely irreversible. He just... rolled the dice a few times. Baby steps.

And that was years ago, that was back in freaking middle school. That was supposed to be just some bad memory, just some motivation to go out and do shit, not get swept up in—whatever this is.

But now Dylan can't leave this bed, he's trapped here. Wired up to these machines, mind just going and going, right off the edge of a fucking cliff.

But Tyler loves Dylan, he _loves_ him. He keeps saying it, now, like that's the key to all of this, click your heels three times and say “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and wake up from this crappy existence. Go back to when Dylan was just funny—haha funny, not fucking funny in the head. Not the kind of funny where you're just laughing because if you don't, there's just silence. Just this massive gaping black hole of silence, and blank faces, watching, waiting, for the moment when the tension finally breaks. And the joke's just going on and on, no end in sight, until the tension becomes all there is. And people just start leaving, changing the fucking channel, moving on. Still laughing nervously, like, Did that really just happen?

Sure, Ty, die for that. For some supposed moral obligation, what would Jesus do? Probably fuck off, honestly. There's only so long you can spend curing lepers before you go back to schmoozing the prostitutes.

But that's religion for you, new religion, all idealism and being a bigger person, not giving into vices, much less genocide this time around. Not—not _no_ genocide, don't get them wrong, but definitely less. And guilt trips keeping you trapped in unhealthy marriages, or forgiving shit that shouldn't be forgiven, because god forbid you not be miserable for five seconds, just taking and taking it.

Tyler deserves someone who can actually be a person, you know? A real person, with normal reactions. Stiles and Derek, it makes sense; their traumas kind of fit together, complement each other somehow. Tyler's too pure. Which is why he should be running for the exits, before that changes. Before he actually starts to understand.

 

Dylan goes back to the Sterek scene. Derek grabs the gun, empties the magazine. He's already trembling, poison circling through his bloodstream. He breaks open a bullet, waits. Stiles is striking matches on the side of the box, but nothing's catching. His vision's clouding, heart pounding out of control. Failure, he's failing. Derek's going to die with the cure right in his hand, all because Stiles couldn't get it together.

He closes his eyes, tries to breathe. Belief, what ever happened to belief? Being a fucking spark. What kind of goddamn _spark_ can't light a fucking match?

What does fire look like? Remember it. The way it flickers, bends and dips like a dancer, see it in your mind. And smell it, sharp, that sweet-acrid smoke filling the air.

“Stiles,” Derek says, quietly. Stiles shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut harder. Really feels it. How your hand heats up around it, without even touching it. The flame chewing its way down the match, the wood going black and thin, disintegrating into nothing.

“ _Stiles!_ ” Derek says hoarsely. Stiles opens his eyes.

His hand is on fire.

Not catching, but sheathed in flames, his skin unsinged. For a long moment he just stares, and then Derek chokes, black blood on his lips, and Stiles bounds forward, takes Derek's hand in his. Drags his shirt up, and presses it to the wound, Derek's poison and Stiles' flame.

Derek shudders, seizes, retches black blood, and goes still.

The music drops out—or would, if this was a show, if it had been some intense instrumental all this time, echoing Stiles' frantic heartbeat, a little bit of epic orchestral stuff when he opens his eyes and we pan down, see the smoke curling through his fingers.

And all of that lasts maybe a few seconds before he realizes what he's done, what he's doing, and his face goes from epic bad-ass to frozen shock, and the flame snaps out.

But now he knows what he can do, his stance changes; he's standing tall, eyes dark with determination, focus. A vein jumps in his forehead; the lights blow out with a shattering _pop_ , this massive column of fire rising from his palm. Smoke curling around him, blurring the room behind him into hazy shadows.

One of those really great instrumental pieces, as the fire rises—Dylan's thinking of the one from the season 3A finale, the three sacrifices. As Derek chokes, and Stiles runs to him, just the slightest hint of slow-motion, drops to his side and takes his hand. Drags up his shirt and applies the cure, keeps his hand there. And Derek shudders, goes still.

And the music drops out, as the whole scene becomes this held breath, Stiles cradling Derek, tears in his eyes.

Hunter bolts then, tries to run; Stiles raises a hand in warning. Hunter stills, sinks back to the ground.

“C'mon,” Stiles says, his hands on Derek's wrist, his neck. “C'mon, c'mon, _please_ —”

And Derek jerks to life. The music comes back, nothing too dramatic, just a soft relief, a caught breath. Stiles' head dipping as all the oxygen rushes back into the room, leaning his forehead against Derek's, just breathing.

The tender moment breaks about a second later, Derek turning his head and retching black blood, wiping his mouth with a palm. Making a face, like that all of that was just a bad taco. That dude has faced down death too many times to be fazed by it. Besides, he's just that much of a bad-ass.

But he sees Stiles, takes him in, how bad he's doing, coming down off the adrenaline, going into shock.

“Thank you,” he says, helping him to his feet. His hands linger on Stiles' shoulders just a little longer than necessary.

Stiles waves a hand dismissively, swipes at his streaming eyes. “You know how it is. Could've just used the normal stick-plus-friction method, but—Go big or go home, that's how I see it. Why do anything halfway, am I right?”

His voice is just trembling, but growing stronger, getting back to normal with every word.

“So,” he says. He tips his chin up at Hunter. “What do we do with him.”

“Let him go,” Derek says.

Stiles gapes at him.

“We're not killers,” Derek says. “We defend our territory, same as him. You can take that back to your bosses,” he tells Hunter. “How the monster let you go with a warning. And it is a warning,” he says, his voice going low, dangerous. “You won't get another chance. You, or anyone who endangers my family.”

“And that includes Scott,” Stiles says. “The McCall pack. My dad, his mom. The whole extended mishpacha. Lemme hear you repeat it back.”

“I think he gets it,” Derek says. He fixes Hunter with an iron gaze. “Do you?”

 

“Whoa,” Tyler says, finally looking up. “That's intense. But really good.”

“Yeah?” Dylan asks, stupidly shyly. It's not that he's not proud of his work. He's just not exactly impartial, here. For all he knows, it's cheesy, trope-y shit, and he's patting himself on the back for a story that only plays out right in his head.

“Of course,” Tyler says. “You ever doubted it?”

His gaze is warm, unfaltering. Like even now, he still sees Dylan as something impressive. Something you'd have to be crazy not to be in love with.

Basking in it, Dylan almost believes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [final sacrifice (instrumental)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgTSgxeQnoQ)


	16. ticktickboom

Time slows to a crawl, or seems to, the hospital walls closing in, and then Camille texts:

_Dude they're threatening to sue_

_?_ Tyler sends back.

 _Stevens/Richter_ , Camille says. _Rumor is they're coming after you. For holding up production_

_They're off schedule over budget you're an easy target_

Tyler stares down at his phone, mind whirring.

Then he calls his manager.

 

It's true. It's true. There's an ultimatum: come back to set and get everything right on the first take, or...

“Sued for how much?” Tyler asks, thinking—he's comfortable, more than comfortable. He can pay off a chunk of some indie movie budget if he has to, if that's what it takes to get them off his back.

And then his manager tells him the number, and he realizes how in over his head he is.

“Dylan could afford it,” his manager points out. “If he needs you bad enough to blow up your career, let him pay for it.”

“I'm not the fucking hired help,” Tyler says, as calmly as he can. More and more, he's finding his jaw locked, clenched tight. He rubs at it, says, quieter, “I'm not gonna hit him with a bill. What if I... Can't I fight it? I did my job.”

It's ridiculous that this can even happen. Like it's his fault this movie's months behind its production schedule, every new batch of re-writes extending and extending it. But Tyler needs a fucking week to be there for his family? That must be the problem. Sure.

“This is all reshoots,” he explains. “Alternative endings. Couldn't I—”

“You could,” his manager says, and then he tells Tyler that number.

 

It's—it's not fine, it's not. How Dylan takes it as rejection when that's the furthest thing from the truth, when Tyler wants to be here with him, and he knows Posey does too. It's just that Teen Wolf's production costs are a hell of a lot higher than Harvest's.

“I love you,” he tries, and Dylan says, “Sure,” and closes his eyes.

Tyler texts Dylan nonstop from the makeup chair, barely saying two words to India, or looking up from the screen. He's got his phone out as soon as Jackie calls cut. Takes off the second he's no longer needed, heads right back to the hospital.

Dylan's on solids, now, a bland hospital-supplied diet, and the nausea comes back and stays. Tyler stocks up on energy bars, scentless, and near tasteless, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Tyler's not gonna eat real food in front of him, wolf down a pizza and fries out of some selfish craving while the fumes only make Dylan sicker.

He eats at work. Works out at work, makes those running scenes count. He's not going to the gym anymore, and it's stupid, but he feels off, without it. Or maybe it's just all of this, adding up.

“You should have said something about the nausea,” Dr Adams says, when Dylan's sick anyway, again and again, eyes streaming, croaking an endless string of apologies, _Sorry, sorry, sorry_. “How long has this been going on?”

And of course he should've. Of course he should've, why didn't he? All this time, Dylan's doctor had the wrong information, and Tyler could've set him right. All this time, he's been focusing on some—eating disorder, some problem which isn't even the problem, doing nothing for the real one.

It's such an obvious mistake, Tyler can't actually believe himself. Dylan's trying so hard to be fine, fine, fine, to be funny, to throw Tyler off, make him think Dylan's okay, but he isn't. He's sick twice in the same hour, trembling, pale. And he doesn't have to be—Dr. Adams prescribes medicines, once he knows, anti-nausea drugs. He could've been feeling better days ago, but Tyler just...

Dropped the ball, he's losing it. Losing focus. Snapping at work, wearing thin here, turning into someone he's not sure he can stand.

And that hurts Dylan too, Tyler being too prepared for another humorless joke. Anticipating it, and tensing up waiting for it, and even—he's ashamed of it, but—baiting Dylan into it, sometimes. C'mon, D, tell us how you really feel. How much of a liar I am.

It's almost a relief, going to work, even if that's just one more place to try to play calm, and fail. India's sympathetic, and then she's curt, and Tyler should apologize, make things right, but he's too busy making sure Dylan isn't dying.

Camille puts her hands up, surrenders, the first time Tyler swears at her. She pats his shoulder, leaves him alone.

And he is, he is alone. As much as he's with Dylan, Dylan's not—he can't be expected to be himself, now, to be easy to be with. It's unfair of Tyler to expect that. To demand that, and be disappointed when Dylan's voice goes quiet again, or too sharp, when he stops talking at all.

But it is lonely, lonelier than Tyler ever thought being with Dylan could be. Having him right there, and so distant, untouchable.

You can't just give up when things get a little difficult. You can't just turn around, turn your back on the person you love because you're selfish, because you're tensing and tensing and you don't know how to stop.

If Tyler was paranoid, insecure, if his mind was conspiring against him, trying to kill him, and Dylan walked out on him—that's inexcusable. That wouldn't happen. Dylan would be there, he'd be—still trying, a week later, still joking around, pleading, trying to bring Tyler back. A month later, a year. Dylan doesn't give up on the people he loves. He's just—fighting the Nogitsune, this evil voice in his head telling him his friends don't need him, and his parents can't know, and everything he thinks he knows about Tyler's feelings is a trick. It's distorted reality, and he's trapped in it, and what's Tyler doing? Taking it personally. Making it worse. Leaving Dylan alone, for hours at a time, to be tortured by it.

Tyler's tired, but that doesn't matter. That doesn't matter.

He'll sleep when the evil thing's dead.

 

Shooting runs long. It's dark when Tyler gets back to the hospital. Dylan's curled on his side, facing the door; he was waiting.

“I'm sorry,” Tyler says, defeated; he didn't do this, couldn't have prevented it, but that doesn't matter. Dylan was waiting, he was waiting alone. Tyler should've been here.

“Don't be,” Dylan says, and turns over, facing away.

It comes too fast, unstoppable; some uncontrollable misery wells up in him, clogs up his throat, his nose. Tears streak down Tyler's face, his shoulders shuddering, and he's covering his face, smearing tears around trying to get a hold of himself, and Dylan alerts somehow, turns back, freezes.

“Tyler,” he says, eyes wide.

Tyler shakes his head, inhales sharp. This can't be happening, he can't be—He thought he was stronger than this.

“Ty,” Dylan says, softer.

“I'm just tired,” Tyler says, not looking at him. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing his raw eyes. “I'm just a little tired.”

“Just come here, okay?” Dylan asks, pats the mattress, so of course Tyler comes, sits down, too heavily. Dylan reaches out, touches him, light, on the arm, on the shoulder, mutters, “Don't, don't, don't...”

“I know,” Tyler says, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Dylan says, palm warm on Tyler's shoulder, the knots in his back. “You don't have to be superhuman in real life,” Dylan says. “That's not possible. That's not possible.”

Tyler's cotton-headed, unsteady, but this isn't—this is all backwards. He needs to be the strong one. Be there for Dylan. Not—Dylan's got enough to deal with without this, without Tyler breaking down like this.

“Hey,” Dylan says, his hand trailing up and down Tyler's side, his chest. Warmth soaking through Tyler's skin, he _missed_ this.

“I'm not your patient,” Dylan says. “Or a kid. You're allowed to be upset in front of me. Don't keep that to yourself, Ty. I don't want you to.”

And Tyler's tired, he's tired, he lies down. Dylan close behind him, an arm over his chest, a good, steady weight.

“You've been amazing,” Dylan says, “holding out for this long, I swear. And I love you—”

And Tyler breaks, breaks down in Dylan's arms, jaw shuddering, Dylan holding him, holding him together, saying, “It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.”

And it is, somehow.

 

There's more touch, after that, Dylan's hands on Tyler all the time. Tyler didn't realize it, but he's been holding back, thinking he's here to be supportive, not some—horndog, some needy frat boy. He didn't think how Dylan would see it, didn't think it would feel like proof that Tyler doesn't like him like that, anymore, that he's turned off by all of this. Didn't realize that's the only reason Dylan was pulling back too, keeping his hands to himself, thinking this sickness makes him untouchable. And it was only Tyler giving in, losing control, waking up with Dylan behind him, pressing into him, and reciprocating without even thinking about it, that put them back the way they should have been, all this time. Dylan losing it with just a few simple touches, Tyler's mouth on his throat, hands in his hair, and Tyler coming apart just feeling Dylan shudder like that, head tipping back, breath catching.

The hospital bed wasn't made for this, for two people stretched out, spent. Tyler's on his side, watching Dylan's breaths slow, the flush in his cheeks, the sleepy grin. Looking up at Tyler through his eyelashes, blushing brighter catching Tyler's eyes on him, squirming closer. Heat slinking through Tyler again, Dylan catching the change, smirking.

Time goes a lot faster, after that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The average length of a hug between two people is 3 seconds. But researchers have discovered something fantastic. When a hug lasts 20 seconds, there is a therapeutic effect on the body and mind. The reason is that a sincere hug produces a hormone called "oxytocin", also known as the love hormone. This substance has many benefits in our physical and mental health, helps us, among other things, to relax, to feel safe and calm our fears and anxiety. This wonderful calming is offered free of charge every time we have a person in our arms, we cradle a child, we cherish a dog or cat, we're dancing with our partner, the closer we get to someone or just holding the shoulders of a friend._


	17. too much, just enough

Tyler's stopped saying “I love you” like some kind of grounding mantra, but when he does say it, he searches Dylan's face, eyes all Derek-y and sincere, making sure Dylan gets it.

And Dylan does, he does. Most days. It's just—love only goes so far, you know? Like, Dylan loves movies, but after fifteen hours of nothing but Netflix, he kind of wants to strangle himself. Or throw his laptop out a window, against a wall, something. And that's a weird impulse, right? It's not even new. Like, the urge to throw your phone into an ocean or something, even if you need your phone to survive, and also, pollution. Pollution is bad, you don't want your phone to cause, like, seagull genocide. Or texting and swimming, that's bound to be lethal. Poor guy loses focus, swims right into all the other junk people dump in the ocean. Condoms and broken bottles and those plastic ring things that hold six-packs together. And then the li'l dude just ends it all out of misery of what his home has become.

Watch Dylan just about start crying about that, next. He's so together, it's incredible.

Dylan's parents love him. He should call them, call his mom, he's terrible. Keeping them out of the loop like this, and if they find out—and not even from him? Dylan doesn't even want to think about it, how shitty that would be for them. And they'd see it as like some kind of personal failing, like it's their fuck-up, their fucked-up son is their fault, always. Even if that's insane, and they always did everything, offered everything, went above and beyond. And Dylan just, just turned out a turd anyway.

They'd be here like Tyler, camped out at his bedside, or—or moving him back home, swooping in and taking care of his whole life. And hugs and pep talks and meaningful looks, and finding him a therapist, or a million, and suddenly his life isn't his anymore, suddenly he's two years old and can't tie his own shoes anymore. But he can't, obviously, obviously can't hack adult life like every other guy his age manages it, like freaking sixteen year olds are managing it, the other Dylan, Sprayberry? He's got it all figured out already, he's like, super intense and motivated, just focusing on his goals and going after them, no doubts. Dylan can't even keep food down without medical intervention, so what are his parents supposed to do? Nothing?

Except yeah, he kind of—and it's awful, it's ungrateful, he's sick at himself, seriously, but—he kind of just wishes they didn't care at all. How insane is that? Like, just be like, “You'll work it out, I trust you,” and leave it there, don't—but that's crazy. That's just off the reservation, Dylan's so fucking spoiled he can't even appreciate the people who've been devoting their entire lives to his failure of one.

Love, love, love.

Maybe people are just better off without it.

 

Tyler hates leaving, always looks so guilty about it. Sorry, D, sorry I'm an adult human being with real life shit to take care of sometimes. He's not even letting himself go to the gym anymore, or to a club, some party, some friend's couch. Just—work, hospital, sleep, work. He's gonna run himself right into the ground if he keeps this up, but he doesn't wanna hear it, refuses to give himself a second to breathe.

“I'm not at death's door,” Dylan says. “This isn't a hospice. You can do other shit, you're not gonna lose me.”

“I don't wanna do other shit,” Tyler says. “I wanna be here. With you.”

Heart-melting, right? Dylan's gonna turn into literal goo, one of these days. Except it's too much, y'know? Dylan can't buy anyone being that committed, that's not—that's not even human, anymore. Like, there's gotta be some side of Tyler resenting the hell out of Dylan, all this time. Maybe he's not even conscious of it, but it's gotta be there. And sooner or later it's gonna surface, somehow, and a cuddle session isn't gonna be enough to tamp it down again.

And it's stupid, because Dylan's not even making all these rules for him, making him sacrifice his whole life. He just thinks he has to, probably. That that's what love means. Or being a good Christian, who the fuck knows. Saint Hoechlin, martyr Hoechlin. Patron saint of the Energizer bunny, and coffee, and Red Bull, and falling asleep anyway, because there's only so much the human body can take, even if Tyler's determined to push it to its limits.

But Tyler's insecure about it, like, borderline clingy, which is ridiculous, but there it is. The second he gets some downtime, Dylan's phone lights up with texts.

Not that Dylan minds that, okay, it's as good a way to stop your brain shrinking from disuse as any. So they text, they text about—well, about Sterek, mostly, to be honest. Tyler's got a million little—head canons, Dylan thinks is the word, or phrase actually, unless that's something totally different, who knows. Like little, mini factoids about the characters, that could be true, just weren't ever actually said on the show. Like, Derek and Cora were always really close, out of all the Hales, so he took her loss the hardest, and then when he found her again, and she was like, this whole different person, he didn't know what to do. How to talk to her, anything. And it was kind of like losing her all over again.

No shit, Hoechlin just—came up with that. Out of nothing.

So obviously Dylan has to come back with some Stiles thing, like uh, like until Scott moved to Beacon Hills with his mom, Stiles didn't actually have any real friends. Like he had—he did social stuff, he was fine, but he just never really clicked with anyone, 'til then. Just kind of joked around nervously, and made his little videos, and—shit, shit, shit.

So, no. Not that.

Stiles' mom, his mom. Stiles' mom got sick, and he, he...

Dylan needs to call his mom.

Except he can't, he just can't. His fingers won't let him dial, his mouth won't let him speak. He's literally forgetting how to speak, as we... speak.

Stiles, Stiles. Stiles' dick. Stiles' dick decided he was gay wayyy before Stiles was ready to. And Lydia Martin was basically this perfect excuse to never actually make a move on anyone at all. Because he's saving himself for the queen, you know? Not that he was homophobic, it's just intimidating. Comes with a lot of shit, you know? A lot of judgment. And he wasn't actually getting any, so why even make it a thing until it was? Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he was just asexual. Or only affected by porn, not actually real people, so why even worry about it?

And then Derek Hale. Derek Hale's everything, his existence, was just this giant exclamation point to the contrary. And Stiles was like, shit. Now what.

Like, fine. It's just a physical thing, and it's never gonna happen. So just...

And then Derek Hale turned into a real person, with real shit, real feelings. And Stiles had real feelings for him, and what do you even do with that? Just constantly saving this guy's life, and getting saved, and going right back to being like, “What? I can't stand the guy, are you kidding?”

And banter, really fun, funny banter. At the most high-stakes moments.

And just wanting to keep him safe, wanting to fix his shitty life into something bearable.

And then the nogitsune, and not wanting Ty to see him like that, losing his mind like that.

And just wanting to avoid him, to never see him, never be made to hurt him, please.

And after, Stiles trying to get past it all, trying to get back to the way things were, and it's like Derek turned into this stranger, overnight. Just this, this vaguely familial acquaintance, that's it.

And there's Malia, instead, like this whole time all that shit was in his head, as unreal as one of his nightmares, and now he's awake, he's straight, he's up for it with this random girl he had sex with while they were both in a mental hospital, while he was possessed, and she was just coming out of hibernation.

Dylan, he feels like he knows Stiles pretty well, but maybe he doesn't. Maybe that's really what the dude would go for, if he was real. And Dylan's just piling all this irrelevant personal shit on top of it and creating this entire false persona for the guy that wasn't ever who he was meant to be.

 _It doesn't matter who he was meant to be,_ Tyler texts. _Derek was supposed to be a bad guy. And 19. And then he wasn't. Nothing's definite._

 _19, jeez_ , Dylan texts back. _makes the whole kate thing a lot darker_

 _Too dark,_ Tyler responds. _Especially the way it was played when she came back._

 _so that's why derek doesn't get an age_ , Dylan surmises. _it's mtv, not hbo. gotta watch that rating_

 _I figured_ , Tyler says. _Could be wrong_

 _imagine it_ , Dylan says. _teen wolf, game of thrones style. they've already got the wolves, and the abuse, what are we missing?_

 _Politics_ , Tyler sends.

 _um no_ , Dylan says. _everyone wants power, will do anything to have it, mr i'm the alpha now_

 _True_ , Tyler says.

 _just the chair then_ , Dylan sends. _the throne thing_

He can just imagine the pained look on Tyler's face, that Dylan doesn't know what the throne thing is called. He doesn't know the house names either, okay, unless it's Harry Potter. Shame, shame, shame.

 _Did we have dragons?_ Tyler asks.

 _jackson_ , Dylan offers.

 _He didn't fly,_ Tyler says.

_and beacon hills isn't called westeros. it's a house of cards, look at it too hard and it all falls apart_

_I'm not spoiling you for House of Cards,_ Tyler says, which is hilarious.

_dude, so not what I meant_

_I don't get why you want my opinions on something you haven't even seen,_ Tyler says.

 _i've seen enough,_ Dylan says. _dog murder. brutal dog murder. i'm done_

 _He's not supposed to be likeable,_ Tyler says _. That's the whole point, he's complicated_

 _nothing complicated about puppy murder,_ Dylan says _._ His heart tugs a little just thinking about it. Helpless sick puppies, how can you feel anything except protective about that? Like, if you have even a shred of humanity, or compassion, or just the absence of absolute shit-dickery where your emotions should be.

 _Star Wars starts with mass murder and you love it,_ Tyler points out.

 _because you're not following the murderer the whole time_ , Dylan says. _there's actual good people to root for. it's not some soul-killing “intricacies of the human psyche/everyone is a depraved asshole deep down” bs. it doesn't make you miserable about the world. it's about hope_

 _Awww,_ Tyler says.

 _shut up_ , Dylan sends back.

 

Things are almost okay, for a while. Good, even, sometimes. Which just might be the most insane part of it all—how used to being some spastic bedridden invalid Dylan is getting, that a little bit of sexytimes with his stupidly hot boyfriend is all he needs to feel like maybe things could be okay. Touching Tyler all the time, and him reacting, him needing that touch—Dylan gets a little drunk on it, sometimes.

So okay, things are good when Tyler's close, when they're together, but then he's gotta go. Some people still have actual lives, you know. Jobs, responsibilities. It's at least a two-hour drive from the hospital to set. Rumor is they'll be reshooting a bunch of stuff in studio next, and that'll be even further.

“And here I thought the Friday the 13th remake was early,” Dylan jokes, and Tyler flashes a grin, but he's tired. He's tired all the time. Two hour commute and fifteen hour days, the dude's falling apart. Sometimes all he can do is crawl into bed with Dylan, kiss his cheek and settle in against him, before he's down for the night.

And that's always fun. Just this really fun reminder that while Dylan's practically getting bedsores from just staring at the ceiling all day, some people are actually productive members of society. Dylan's biggest accomplishment this week is the ability to retain soup rather than going The Exorcist for the millionth time. And without the meds, he probably wouldn't be able to do that, either.

So. Fun.

And when Dylan's tired? When Ty comes home and he's somehow not exhausted, and Dylan's wiped out from his super jam-packed day of aggressively not Googling himself? That's just embarrassing. And, and Dylan just referred to this shithole hospital as home, didn't he. Really, he's just firing on all cylinders, these days.

It's not a shithole, it's not. It's actually pretty well maintained. After the first couple days they got their own security in play to hold back the paparazzi, very cool. Dylan was not looking forward to those shots circulating. WOOF! 'TEEN WOLF' STAR LOOKS WORSE THAN WE'VE EVER SEEN HIM (PICS). No thank you. Not that Jesus by the door wasn't massive fun to banter with—Hey, Tyler, do you have a minute to talk about Jesus? I mean Hey-zuice, sorry. My bad.

Dylan's got jokes for days, absolutely. And making a massively no-nonsense dude like that break? So satisfying. But comes a point, a guy watching you stagnate for days at a time, where it just, all of it, just stops being funny. Like, at all.

Plus, sexytimes would definitely be at least twice as awkward with a third party present. Not that Dylan isn't full up on awkward as it is.

“You're so good,” Tyler mumbles, when miracle of miracles, they both have enough stamina to actually do something other than cuddle. “Feel so good.”

And falls asleep inside him.

 

He's apologetic in the morning, too much. Dylan doesn't wanna hear it.

“You need to slow down,” he says. “Take a breath, okay? Take a day. I'll be fine for a day. Just sleep a full eight hours, or longer. Drink some wine, have a bath. Do you.”

“I don't have time,” Tyler says, already scattered, grabbing his wallet, his keys. His jacket, where's—oh, right. Things got exciting for a second there, now it's under the bed. “I'll text you. I love you.”

He leans in for a quick kiss, and Dylan catches his mouth, works a little tongue in there. You know, just to wake him up a little. Make this a little less old married couple.

“You're trying to get me to leave you alone,” Tyler says, looking a little lost in the best way, “and that's your closing argument? Mixed messages, D.”

He's smirking.

“I'm a walking contradiction,” Dylan says. “An enigma wrapped in a fortune cookie. Lucky numbers: 69, 69, 69.”

“I really hate my job right now,” Tyler says.

“Love you too,” Dylan says.

 

Love, love, love.

Sometimes it's alright.

 


	18. tough break

Tyler's not answering any of Dylan's texts.

It's fine, it's fine, it's just—new. Normally he's on it like tan on Trump, but the dude's got a lot going on in his life, unlike some other people. Plus, didn't Dylan just tell him to give himself a break? He seriously can't win.

But the hours crawl by, without that distraction, that stimuli. Dylan watches five episodes of Friends, ha, remember when he had friends? There's some nostalgia for you. Real throwback moment.

He really doesn't remember the laugh track sounding so judgmental, either. That seems new.

Today's just full of new.

But whatever, it's cool. Ty's taking a day. Good for him. Seriously, Dylan needs to let the dude breathe. Texting every five seconds, could he be more of a desperate clinger? That's always so attractive.

Was Chandler always such an asshole?

Dylan can totally watch ten seasons of this, that's great. That'll take, lets see. Less time than he'll be here, probably. But won't that be an accomplishment? He can finally make a definitive call on the best Christmas episode, that'll be exciting. Dylan's life is a whirlwind of...

[Family Guy cut to the stupid slackjawed look on his face, the total immobility of him. The best part? It's a stop-motion video, but it looks like a still image.]

The video stalls, that little buffering circle thing (bufferer?) just going round and round. Frozen on Chandler, shirtless, kind of shower-damp, and that's—Dylan is a hollow shell of a man, okay, his dick's basically the only part of him that still gets excited about anything.

There's something weirdly masturbatory about getting off to Chandler, besides the obvious masturbatory element of it all, but hey, if that was the weirdest thing about Dylan, he'd be on top of the fucking world.

His brain is just starting to fuzz out nicely, his body almost edging close to happy, when the nurse comes in with lunch.

 

Dylan's ready to take a nice long bath in lye, it's fine. His skin's crawling, trying to get away from him, from this catastrophically humiliating situation.

The nurse is about sixty, and she kind of looks like Dylan's grandmother, if Dylan was biracial, and his grandmother could ever keep calm under these circumstances. Ha, cir-cum-stances.

Dylan hates himself, he really does.

She sets the tray down like it's nothing, like there's no elephant in the room, nope. Takes off at a totally normal, mind-numbingly glacial pace, seemingly unaffected.

Dylan may never jerk himself off again.

The fire in his face dies down eventually, or maybe he just gets used to it. Watching Friends is obviously impossible, now. Dylan's entire body is made out of cringes, just considering it.

That's cool, Dylan can just sleep. Just sleep for the rest of his life, just end it right here and now, why not?

There's a fun story to share with Tyler, that'll brighten his day. But nope; Dylan resists. Dude gets one day without being bugged by Dylan's everything. One day to veg out in his trailer, hang out with the cast, that friend of his, what's her name, Camille.

She's just twenty, Dylan finds, when he Googles her, out of some kind of semi-suicidal boredom. Has no twitter or facebook, just tumblr and snapchat.

Dylan is twenty-four. He's not supposed to feel so fucking old, suddenly.

He's never even downloaded Snapchat, like, just to check it out. There are too many things to keep up with, okay, you have to draw a line somewhere. And what, _what_? He sounds like someone's cartoon grandmother.

Some reporter once told Dylan he was big on Tumblr. Like, most reblogged, something. Like two years ago, like before Camille's parents even let her on the internet unsupervised, or before she could even have an account, don't you have to be thirteen, or something? And wow, Dylan is really winning the Not At All Petty Awards. Special guest: Tom Petty. Presented by Alex Pettyfer.

Camille Rodriguez, by the way, has done about fifteen short films with some feminist group. Dylan can't fault that; he'd have HeForShe'd up years ago if he was the kind of guy who made big political statements like that, and not the dude obsessively worrying that his totally bland public persona isn't kid-friendly enough, or something. So the cutest girl Dylan's ever seen also has about four times as much spine, that's fantastic. Dylan's coming out looking great in this comparison.

She's got two projects in development this year alone. That's, for the record, that's two more projects than Dylan's got going. Or ever will again, probably.

Dylan's starting to ferment in his own misery, so he goes back to his writings, his little Sterek stories. Derek and Stiles, Stiles and Derek. We're on a ship, trying not to fucking capsize, or just grab the wheel and steer right toward that iceberg, hit it head on.

Derek's got that perfect stubbly beard back. And glasses, don't worry about why. Some kind of—Orange Juice Moon, or aubergine wolfsbane, now he can't see for shit without them. Stiles has all kinds of sympathy, but also, is practicing all kinds of restraint not jizzing his pants every time he looks up from the, lets say the Argent grimoire he's studying, why not.

Maybe Derek's temporarily human. Sure, okay. And Stiles is trying to fix it, because Deaton's about as helpful as he usually is. Enigmatic all-knowing or possibly incredibly smug but completely faking it bastard, he wants Derek to find the strengths in his new-found humanity rather than being crippled by the weaknesses.

Sure, that sounds legit enough.

But Derek's not accepting that; the dude nearly dies once an episode anyway, and that's when he's got super-healing and the ability to punch through most walls. So he's understandably stressed.

“You're too stressed,” Camille says, her hands on Tyler's shoulders, so supportive. And then they're kneading down, working out the knots with incredible precision. She's also a licensed massage therapist, did you know that? Yeah, it's listed in the 'skills' section of her resume, somewhere between kung fu fighting and competitive poker. And you poor thing, you've been working so hard. Speaking of hard, you know, that happens. My massages feel good, it's totally natural. Don't even worry about it.

Dylan's brain is determined to destroy him.

So he's human, Dylan thinks, tries to think. Human, and vulnerable, and Stiles—

Camille's pretty mouth on Tyler's, on Tyler's dick, “Oh, this? This is just the VIP package. Ha, get it? Package.”

“You're so funny,” Tyler says. “So much funnier than Dylan.”

Her mouth curling, and Tyler spasms, says, “You're so—you feel so—”

That's when all sound devolves into some porn soundtrack.

“He doesn't even wonder why I'm so tired all the time,” Tyler laughs against her throat, after. “All this exercise, with you. He thinks we're _running_.”

“What a fucking idiot,” Camille says. She's not even a little bit winded; another thing on her list of skills is Olympic Gymnast. You don't even wanna _know_ how bendy.

“We should make a movie,” Tyler says. “You and me. Oh, wait. We're already making a movie.”

“Another movie,” Camille says. “Where we're the hottest new couple, at no risk to our careers. We'll be Fred Astaire and whoever Fred Astaire did all those movies with, we'll be legends.”

“Imagine a feminist remembering the dude's name and not the chick's,” Tyler says. “Dylan can't even come up with believable dialogue anymore. Imagine him trying to write a real movie.”

“Who cares about Dylan,” Camille says. She's so cute Dylan's stomach hurts, little and perky and kind of face-warping into Alessia Cara, now that Dylan thinks about it. “Let's have sex again.”

“Good point,” Tyler says.

 

Dylan hasn't vomited in a while.

Today's all about making up for that.

 

Head kind of light, everything kind of weird and off-kilter, Dylan googles “tyler hoechlin camille rodriguez,” because of course he does. And it's too easy: all there, just waiting. There's a million paparazzi photos, they're holding hands. Next one they're even closer. She's practically glued to his side, he's leaning a little against her. Her arm around him for the next few, they're walking.

But Dylan keeps going back to the third one. They're not touching, but it's the way Tyler’s looking at her. He looks lost. Looks like he's just been kissed into another dimension.

And it's not even a surprise, it shouldn't be. Wouldn't be if Dylan wasn't such an idiot. Actually thinking—actually believing, what? That such a ridiculously self-sacrificing guy actually exists, that he'd sacrifice it all for _Dylan_. For this Dylan, invalid Dylan, Dylan who's obviously completely delusional.

Maybe his heart does something funny, maybe his whole brain changes shape with the realization, but suddenly machines are beeping and people are rushing in, and won't this be fun.

And he's fine, he's fine he's fine he's fine, get a grip, Dyl. So what was the plan, anyway? Lean on him, rely on him? Get so comfortable with him you forget what a collapsing shitshow the rest of your life is, that's a stellar plan. Really, it's incredible that didn't work out.

Medical babble all around him, and a growing sense of numbness, spreading through him.

He stops listening, or maybe everything just stops making a sound.

 

Posey's his emergency contact, it turns out. He calls Hoechlin but can't reach him. Dylan's done being surprised.

“Don't, don't,” he says. Of course his stupid voice makes him sound like a bride who's been left at the altar, and not the actually totally emotionless robot he is right now. “He's—There's this friend of his, Camille. Well actually they're a little more than friends.”

“He wouldn't,” Posey says. “Hoechlin? The guy's ready to marry you. He acts like you're _already_ married.”

“I said don't, for fucks sake,” Dylan says, fake-smiling so hard his eyes water. “There's pictures.”

“Show me,” Posey says. “I wanna see for myself.”

“You don't,” Dylan says, but he finds them anyway.

 

“It's just holding hands,” Posey says, but he doesn't sound sure. And whatever, whatever. So what if they are, so what if—

“Let him have this,” Camille says. Standing in front of Dylan's bed, looking so sincere, _selfless._ “If you care about him at all.”

“Not that I need your permission,” Tyler points out.

So what, so what. So what if Dylan just becomes a heroin addict? There, there's a much more acceptable celebrity malady. So much less pathetic than your brain just turning on you, or the revelation that you're so fucking narcissistic, you're unbearable.

“I'll talk to him,” Posey says. “Find out. It's gonna be nothing.”

“He's not picking up the,” Dylan starts, and finds he can't speak over the lump in his throat. Kurt Cobain, everybody liked him. Corey Monteith, so tragic. They didn't physically repulse everyone in their lives, they were these big, romantic figures—and Dylan can't even tolerate that bullshit train of thought for as long as it's stalled in the station. He's not minimizing really fucking miserable people's pain to elevate his own crap, that's insane.

Maybe he's just insane.

“Hey,” Posey says. He looks almost angry, but not at Dylan. “It's not gonna be true, okay? And if it is, fuck him. You could have a thousand people hotter than him.”

Dylan doesn't even bother reacting to that.

“You could have anyone,” Posey says. Leaning close, his arm around Dylan, Dylan's fighting not to fucking cry. “Anything. You're the only thing that gets in your way.”

Yeah.

Yeah, that's about right.

If not for Dylan, Dylan'd be the fucking president.

 

“How'd you get out of shooting,” Dylan says. His head's on Posey's chest, they're watching the ceiling. Every so often, the new machine thing the doctors added goes beep, then shuts up for like ten minutes. Then goes beep again.

“I told Jeff to go fuck himself,” Posey says.

“You didn't,” Dylan says, laughing. Posey doesn't say anything. Dylan swerves his head up and around, looks at him. “You _didn't_. What'd he _do_?”

“I don't know,” Posey says. “I just left. I haven't called him, or anything.” He lets out an aggravated huff. “I know his job's hard, I know we need to have everything done, like, _yesterday_ , but I can't—Fucking push it off, it doesn't matter. Family emergency, asshole.”

And the emergency's Dylan.

The family's Dylan.

He really is crying now.

“What,” Posey says. Hands on Dylan's shoulder, his side. “Forget Hoechlin, he's a tool.”

“It's not,” Dylan says. “Just.” He shakes his head. More tears spill down. Weird trajectory, too, because he's got his face at a weird angle. Tears are going down to his ears, up his nose and shit. He sniffs, tries to pull himself at least a little bit together. “I missed you.”

“I know,” Posey says seriously. “I mean, me too. Work is bullshit without you.” His arm tucks around Dylan, holds him close. “So's everything else.”

“I thought—” Dylan flushes. He feels like an idiot. “I thought you were glad for the excuse. To get away, you know?”

“Don't be an idiot,” Posey says. “I fucking love you. You think I wanna pretend to be a nudist werewolf rather than be here?”

“Nudist,” Dylan snickers.

“Here's every scene, every single Scott scene this season, I'm serious. You ready? Okay, here goes.”

Dylan waits.

“And that was every scene,” Posey says.

“What?”

“He's the new Derek,” Posey says. “Standing around glaring at things. Without Stiles? It's awful.”

“Your pack,” Dylan says. “You're the _true alpha_.”

“Please, that's not _dark_ enough,” Posey says. “Isaac got all vengeance and murder-happy, with losing Allison, and now Stiles. Like, kill them before they kill us. And obviously Scott's still 'We don't kill people!' so the pack splintered. Most of them went darkside, with him and Peter.”

“Star Wars reference,” Dylan says, a little stunned. “You watched it?”

“Only the new one,” Posey says.

“And...” Dylan says, impatiently.

“I didn't hate it,” Posey says.

“I'm counting that as a win, no takebacks,” Dylan says triumphantly. “And someday you'll watch the others, and you'll understand.”

“Uh huh,” Posey says.

“Not the prequels,” Dylan corrects himself. “Oh god. Not the prequels. But the others.”

“Maybe,” Posey says doubtfully.

“Or maybe you'd like them, who knows,” Dylan says. “Weirdo.”

“I just don't get it, okay,” Posey says. “Like, everyone admits it's super racist. And the 'Noooo' after the whole 'I'm your father' thing, seriously? It's like a joke.”

“You did watch them,” Dylan says.

“I watched the CinemaSins,” Posey says.

“Dude,” Dylan says. “The whole point of that is to make fun of the shitty parts. He makes The Dark Knight look stupid, Hoechlin hates it.”

Somehow they're back around to Hoechlin again. 

“I really don't think he'd cheat on you,” Posey says. His hand's kind of playing through Dylan's hair. It feels nice. “I really don't.”

“Can we just not,” Dylan says.

“I'm just saying, don't blow this up before you know for sure.”

“Sure,” Dylan says, just so Posey'll drop it.

 

“Come back to the show,” Posey says softly, after a couple moments silence. “It sucks without you.”

“Yeah," Dylan mutters. "I'm sure Jeff's really clamoring—”

“Fuck Jeff,” Posey says. “Hard. With a Tabasco dildo. We'll go over his head if we have to. MTV wants you back, they can make him.”

“Can't make him write me lines,” Dylan says. “I'll be the new Derek, just—shirtless all the time, looking lost. Or just full-on naked.”

“I already told you, Scott's the new Derek,” Posey says. “Someone's gotta have a line. Besides, he loves writing for you.”

“Just a million Stalia sex scenes,” Dylan says.

“No, man,” Posey says. “Malia's with Isaac now. It's like the new fan favorite. They're both, like, majorly violent. And kind of broken. But sweet together.”

“Major Lee Violent,” Dylan says, saluting. “Oh. Oh, man. Guess what happened today.”

“Um,” Posey says, but Dylan cuts in, “So I'm just innocently jerking off, right? Really starting to get somewhere. And then the door opens, and this nurse comes in, with lunch. And I just kind of freeze, like maybe if I don't move I'll be invisible, like, blend in with the furniture. And she sets down the tray, right, and it kind of vibrates the bed, and I just—come. Everywhere.”

“Oh shit,” Posey says, laughing, and Dylan says, kind of choking in silent laughter, eyes watering, “And she's just staring at me, like, eyes probably popping out of her head, but behind this really serene smile. And she looks just like, literally looks _exactly_ like my grandmother.”

“I can't,” Posey says, gasping. “I can't, that's—My dick would never recover.”

“I know, right?” Dylan says, and they both crack up, falling all over each other, and it's crazy. It's crazy.

Dylan doesn't think he's ever been so happy in his whole life.

 


	19. pressure

“Is it true?” Posey says, scaring the shit out of Tyler right off the bat.

“Is what true,” he says warily. Breathing, just breathing. He's been on edge all day, stuck at work without his phone, without any connection to Dylan at all.

“You,” Posey says. “And Camille Rodriguez.” His eyes are intense, warning. “Don't lie to me.”

“Me and,” Tyler says blankly. “Together?”

“Yes or no,” Posey says, tense.

“No!” Tyler says. “Of course—of _course_ no. Is someone saying—Does _Dylan_ think—?”

“There's pictures,” Posey says. “You're really close.”

“Yeah, we're really close,” Tyler says, a little defensively. Posey looks at him. “Not like _that_. What pictures,” he says. He's trying not to lean away. Show weakness, or—He doesn't know what he's trying to do.

“We're just friends," he says. "We're just friends.”

“You were holding her hand,” Posey says.

“No I wasn't,” Tyler says.

“I saw the pictures,” Posey says.

“Then they're fake,” Tyler says, annoyed. “I'm not with her. I just talk to her. I barely even do that, anymore.”

“Gimme a minute,” Posey says, and goes back into Dylan's room. He comes out with Dylan's laptop. “That's fake?

“That's not...” Tyler says, and looks. At him and Camille, holding hands, Camille all against his side, him leaning against her. It really does look like— “Dylan's seen this?”

“You _motherfucker_ ,” Posey says, lunging at him; Tyler ducks, backs away and away, hands up like a shield.

“It's not,” he says. “We're not—There isn't a we. I don't know what this is, but it doesn't mean anything.”

“But it's real,” Posey says. “It's not an edit. You just don't remember.”

“Does it matter?” Tyler asks. “I'm not cheating on him. My whole life is about Dylan. How does that even make sense? As if I'd throw it all away for some—I barely even know her.”

“You said you were close,” Posey says. “Really close.”

“I'm not _really close_ with anyone, these days,” Tyler says testily. “Except Dylan. I'm here every day, every second I can be here. I don't do anything else.”

“You don't sound real thrilled about it,” Posey says.

“Yeah, well maybe I'm not!” Tyler says. “Right now,” he adds, but the damage is done; Posey's looking at him like he just killed a puppy. “Maybe I just don't like being interrogated,” he says, calmer. “I didn't do anything wrong. I can't help what it looks like.”

“I tried calling you,” Posey says. “Four times. You didn't answer.”

“I couldn't,” Tyler says.

“So I couldn't tell you he had a heart attack,” Posey says.

Tyler freezes solid.

He can't breathe at all, for the longest time. Can't see, can't think.

“Why the _hell_ ,” he says, his face and chest on fire, eyes prickling with tears, “didn't you lead with that?”

“Wasn't sure you'd care,” Posey says.

“Wasn't sure I'd,” Tyler says, and shakes his head, scrubs at his eyes. “He's in the hospital. Under constant surveillance. How could this _happen_?”

“Stress,” Posey says.

“Stress,” Tyler says. “Like what.” His eyes catch on the laptop, those stupid photos. “Tell me it wasn't—Not over me. Tell me this wasn't about me.”

“I'm sorry,” Posey says.

“I'll quit,” Tyler decides. “I'll—That's it, I'm done. Let them fucking sue.”

“What are you talking about?” Posey says.

“ _Harvest_ ,” Tyler says. “This idiotic clusterfuck of a movie, it's never-ending. And they'll sue me if I don't finish it, even though it never seems to fucking _finish_. How did you get out of work?” he demands.

“I told Jeff to go fuck himself,” Posey says.

“I should try that,” Tyler says. He covers his face, leans hard against his palm. “Jesus fucking Christ. I wanna stop this ride. Get him off.”

It's a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Posey isn't in tears at the accidental pun.

“Help me convince him I didn't do this,” Tyler says. “I've—He won't believe me, he never believes me. It's this thing in his head, it's trying to convince him none of us give a shit.”

“You love him?” Posey asks.

“You have no idea,” Tyler says heavily.

“Then tell him,” Posey says. “All the time.”

“Don't you think I've tried that?” Tyler says, incredulous. “He thinks I'm lying. To myself, even. Or that it doesn't matter, because I'll get sick of him anyway.”

“We could do an intervention,” Posey suggests. “Not just us. Holland, and, can you get Linden here? And Colton, definitely. I'll do Colton. Maybe even his parents—”

“Not his parents,” Tyler says. “He's pretty much decided that if his parents find out, the world will end.”

“So we show him it won't,” Posey says. “It's like with you, or thinking I couldn't wait to get away. It's not true.”

“We don't know that,” Tyler says. “I've never met them, have you?”

“Is this the part of the movie where we find out his parents never existed?” Posey says. “They're supportive, right? How many times has he said that?”

“Too many,” Tyler says. “We're not going behind his back on this.”

 

It's almost theater; Tyler walking into Dylan's room like everything's fine, like that talk never happened, like he's just back from work. There's a new machine, beeping. Tyler doesn't know what it means.

He hates that.

“Have you seen my phone?” he says, uber-casually. “I've been looking for it all day.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. There's red around his eyes, he's been crying. Tyler's chest tightens. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Tyler says. He's almost angry. More at himself than anyone else, but he can't help the tightness in his voice. “What, you think I'd just stop texting you for a day? Just out of the blue.”

“I told you to take a day,” Dylan says. 

“And Jackie keeps telling me to do the same fucking scene forty times, but apparently I can't get that right, either,” Tyler says, and sits by him. Nods at the new machine. “What's that?”

“Some beepy thing,” Dylan says vaguely. 

“Wouldn't have guessed.” Tyler tries for a grin, can't manage it.  

“I don't know, man,” Dylan says. He's apologetic, too apologetic. Tyler can't stomach it. “I don't know what the fuck's going on with my body. Or my mind. It's just all going to shit.”

“Don't say that,” Tyler says. 

“Why not?” Dylan challenges. “It's true. This is like, a breakdown in every sector, simultaneously. I should just go down to the DMV, tick yes for donor, and wait to be chopped for parts.”

“That's not funny,” Tyler says. He means to say it kindly, means a lot of things, but the thought digs down somewhere deep, doesn't let up. And Tyler's breathing, he's focusing on breathing, because if he doesn't, he's gonna forget how. 

“The last straw,” Dylan says. “I'm not even funny anymore.”

Tyler exhales sharp. “You know that's not what I meant.”

His breaths keep threatening to catch in his throat.

“What can I do,” Tyler tries. He's breathing, Dylan's breathing. Everything else is immaterial. “To make things better. Make you feel better.”

“Would that you could, man,” Dylan says. “But this isn't a you thing. This is a me thing.”

“It isn't,” Tyler says. “It's just a sickness. It's not who you are.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dylan says.

 

It was a small heart attack, Dylan's doctor says. As if that's possible. As if there's anything small about a heart attack when the man having it is twenty-four.

He's supposed to practice de-stressing techniques. Breathing, affirmations. Being present in the moment. Going to his happy place, when being present is too stressful.

Dylan thinks the whole thing is a joke.

 

Tyler finds his phone under the bed.

“I texted you,” Dylan says. “A bunch of times. I didn't hear it.”

“I turn it off as soon as I get here,” Tyler says. “I barely get to see you as it is. I don't want any interruptions.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. Tyler comes in close, kisses him, then again, softer, slower. Dylan's fingers on his throat, his jaw.

“What's up with your jaw?” Dylan says. “You're clenching it.”

“Just a little—” Tyler’s mouth meets Dylan’s again. “Mad at myself, I guess. Should've...  _Oh_ , that's nice.”

Dylan's rubbing Tyler's shoulder, the back of his neck, all down his spine. Smoothing heat into his weary bones.

“Should've checked for my phone,” Tyler manages. He stretches a little, leans into the touch. “Could've avoided—mmmm. Avoided all of this mess.”

Dylan's hands under his shirt, now, Tyler's starting to unravel. And then he's kissing Tyler again, his mouth dragging against Tyler's mouth, catching on his lower lip. Tyler's head goes back, and Dylan's goes down, down his throat, all around his collarbone, and lower. Hands on the edges of Tyler's shirt, pulling it up and over, and Tyler's regretting ever leaving this room, ever...

“I hated,” Tyler breathes, Dylan's mouth in places he can barely speak through, “hated work today. Not being able to text you. Was like I couldn't—breathe right, or—couldn't relax. Needed to know how you—Oh, oh. Oh. How you were doing. And just—talk to you.”

“You taste weird,” Dylan says, which takes Tyler out of it, just a little.

“Weird how,” Tyler says.

“I don't know,” Dylan says, his voice odd. “Are you using a different soap? Or—”

“I'm not cheating with some girl I barely know, if that's what you're asking,” Tyler says, before he can stop himself.

“Tyler showed you the pictures,” Dylan says.

“I don't even remember that day,” Tyler says. “Or holding her hand, any of it.”

“Must've been in a fugue state,” Dylan says. “This is where you realize you're Brad Pitt as well as Edward Norton.”

“Funny,” Tyler says, but he's not laughing. “I guess it's too much to ask you to trust me.”

“Picture's worth a thousand words,” Dylan says.

“Yeah, and most of them are bullshit,” Tyler says. “You know what we do. You know how easy it is to make things look like something they're not.”

"Forget it," Dylan says, reaching for him again. "Just forget it, okay?"

But the moment's gone, and Tyler's pulled back, and he's cold. He pulls his shirt back on, scrubs at his mouth.

Breathes, breathes, breathes.

 

“Maybe you should just ask her,” Dylan says. He's lying on his stomach, head in his hands, voice low, muffled. “What you were doing. See if she remembers any better.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, nodding. He's been reading some side, trying to read some side. As if he can actually go back to work, after this, after a day like this. “Yeah, I will. That's exactly what I'll do.”

 

Some guy Tyler doesn't know picks up, says, ''Who's this?”

His accent's so Scottish it sounds like a joke. Maybe it is. 

“Um,” says Tyler. “Tyler. Hoechlin? Is Camille—”

“Pretty boy,” the guy says. “Anything you wanna tell me, pretty boy?”

“No,” Tyler says.

“There's some pretty pictures,” the guy says. “You and my girl. Real fookin' sweet.”

Tyler swallows.

“Give me the phone, Dave,” Camille shouts, and then she says, “Hi. Sorry about him. Remember when I said I fall in love with assholes, who seem really sweet at first? Case in fucking _point_ ,” she says, seemingly to Dave as much as Tyler. “Can you believe I used to think jealousy was cute? Turns out it's just weird and possessive,” she calls throughout the land.

“Right,” Tyler says. “Forget it, I'll just—”

“No, no,” Camille says. “What is it? Is Dylan okay? Oh!” she squeals, beside herself. “Did you _do_ it? What'd he say?”

“You're on speaker,” Tyler says, regretting almost all of his life choices.

“Oh, shit,” Camille says. “Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry.”

Dylan's looking at Tyler like he's never seen him before.

“Those pictures,” Tyler says, kind of wanting to cry, honestly, “what were we doing? I don't remember it. Like, any of it.”

“Oh,” Camille says. Tyler can hear her rolling her eyes. “This is the biggest joke, are you ready? You know that third picture? The one where we look so fucking—well—”

Tyler's jaw is basically one solid cement block.

“You were gonna drive to the hospital yourself,” Camille says. “You could barely walk, dude, it was like you'd been hit over the head. Once you heard what happened to him.”

Oh.

Oh, that day.

“So yeah, I basically saved your life,” Camille says. “And for the record? You are like forty. So not my type. No offense. So, yeah. Anything else?”

“No,” Tyler says, manually dragging his jaw into place, keeping his hand there. “Thanks so much.”

 

“Well don't I look like an asshole,” Dylan says softly.

 

“You're not,” Tyler says. His arms around Dylan, he's just breathing. Just feeling their breaths syncing, rising and falling, steady, safe. They're gonna be okay. It's been resolved. That's all that matters. “You're not an asshole. I'd be jealous too. If I thought—”

“Stop making excuses,” Dylan says. “Seriously. I'm not—"

His breaths shudder, his voice breaks. 

"There's something seriously wrong with me," he says. He sounds... more than lost, he sounds scared. Tyler holds him, holds him, tries to find some combination of words he might believe. "I mean, no shit, Sherlock, right, but—I'm kind of just realizing it. Like in a serious way, you know? How fucking broken I am.”

“Stop,” Tyler says. He hates this, hates when Dylan gets like this. Up on some ledge, and Tyler can't talk him down. Can't do anything.

“You're not broken,” he says, pointlessly, uselessly. “You're not anything. You're gonna be okay.”

“No, man,” Dylan says. “Like, maybe I should be on something. Meds, or—”

Tyler breathes, breathes, breathes. “Did Dr. Adams say something?”

“Um,” Dylan says. “Yeah? I'm kind of—already on something? Or—more than one.”

“Yeah?” Tyler says. He doesn't know how to feel, or what he's feeling. Maybe he's relieved. Maybe it'll work. Maybe that's all Dylan's needed, all this time.

Maybe he's scared to death it'll just make everything worse.

“Effexor,” Dylan says. “And some—re-something, for OCD. Resperdal? Respiritol? Something respiratory.”

“You don't have,” Tyler starts, but what does he know? What the fuck does he know? With all his extensive medical knowledge, his negative seven degrees. “Is it helping?”

“I don't know,” Dylan says. “No one really sees results this early.”

“Oh,” Tyler says. Right, yeah. Of course they don't.

“I wanna get better,” Dylan says. Low, raw. Tyler hates this. This hopelessness, this helplessness. “I don't wanna be like this," Dylan says. He sniffs. "Put you through this.”

Tyler rolls closer, crosses his arms over him, hands on his shoulder, his chest. Anchoring, maybe, or maybe just trying to breathe. Keep some kind of control over all of this, some balance.

“Everything's gonna be fine,” he says.


	20. sing

“Are taste hallucinations a thing?” Dylan asks.

“Do you think they're a thing?” Dr. Martin says. There's a too-obvious joke: Doc Martin. And she's got reddish hair, like Lydia. Holland. Whatever.

“Breakfast tasted kinda weird,” Dylan says. “Like, too salty. Like someone just dumped the whole shaker in.”

“Maybe someone dumped the whole shaker in,” Dr. Martin says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dylan says. “Except, it wasn't just one thing. Like, the _syrup_ was salty.” There were two little individually sealed cuboid cups of the stuff. Both tasted equally like ass.

So did everything else.

“You're taking Effexor, right?”

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Why?”

“Altered sense of taste could be a side effect of Effexor,” Dr. Martin says.

Other than the red hair, she looks nothing like Lydia. Or Holland. Even the red hair's a different kind of red. Like fake red. But not like punk fake red, but like—Mad Men lady, Christina something, that red. But not really, honestly, the more Dylan looks at it. Mostly it just looks like itself.

“Where did you just go?” Dr. Martin asks.

“What? Nowhere.” Dylan grips the arms of his bed instinctively, like he's making sure.

“In your head,” Dr. Martin says. “Do you have trouble staying in the moment?”

“What moment,” Dylan says. “There isn't a moment. There's just—time.”

“Does the thought of potential side effects worry you?” Dr. Martin asks.

“Should it?” Dylan asks. What is this, the question game? The doc has glasses. He'd have cast someone without glasses. Less of a cliché.

Or maybe that's not casting, no. That's more of a wardrobe issue. Really easy fix, actually.

Some director he'd be. Firing people for wearing glasses, that's intelligent.

Maybe he'd be more intelligent if he wore glasses.

“What do you do when something worries you?” Dr. Martin asks.

“Um,” Dylan says.

The thing is, he doesn't worry. No, he pointedly doesn't worry at all. Any thoughts about the past, or the present, or the future are prone to simultaneously humiliate and depress him into a semi-suicidal funk, so he just tries not to think. TV, why not watch some TV? Or a movie, or that spot on the wall. Is it a bug, or just dirt? Who knows? Let's watch and see.

“Not much,” Dylan says.

 

It's not exactly salt, Dylan decides. It's, like, _briny_. Kind of sour, kind of sharp.

Maybe he's just having a stroke.

It really occupies a lot of his day, until he tries to stand and realizes gravity no longer applies to him.

 

“I feel like I'm fucking walking on the moon,” he tells Posey. “When I'm... you know, when I'm walking.”

“Weird!” Posey says, impressed. “Should I—call someone?”

“Call Michael Jackson,” Dylan says. “Because this is the real moonwalking, right here.”

“Yeah, I'll get right on that,” Posey says. “You want me to maybe, uh, CC anyone else?”

“Nah,” Dylan says. “It's probably nothing.”

Or reality as he knows it is breaking down, revealing the Matrix behind it. Everything is code, and gravity is an illusion.

He googles his meds; turns out Respiridone is an anti-psychotic.

Well, it's always good to know where you stand. Especially now that it's more like floating.

 

“Don't anti-psychotics make non-psychotic people psychotic?” he tells the lovely Doc Marten. Martin. Whatever.

“Are you concerned about your medication?” Dr. Martin asks.

“Should I be?” Two can play at this game. Dylan watched that one episode of Whose Line, he's prepped and ready to go.

He'll do a fucking hoedown, if the moment calls for it.

_Poor Dylan's got a broken brain but Effexor protects him_

_If only all these lovely doctors knew how it affects him_

_He googled and he found_

_To keep him safe and sound_

_It'll screw up all his senses and stop him getting erections_

Everyone, in unison: _Stop him getting erections!_

Dylan O'Brien, everybody.

In fact, let's go for round two.

_Didn't really feel psychotic, but then maybe that's the point_

_Tell him it's OCD and dose him before he blows up the joint!_

_Now he's floating on cloud nine_

_Like he's done a thousand lines_

_He can't help his reputation but he'd hate to disappoint_

Everyone: _He'd hate to disappoint!_

Except point and disappoint don't really rhyme, do they. Well then, how about—

“Dylan,” Dr. Martin says. “No. Anti-psychotics have a number of uses. Respiridone has been shown to be helpful in treating OCD.”

“I don't even have OCD,” Dylan says. “I'm not organizing my meals by color, I don't have to jerk off a specific number of times for it to be right.”

“No obsessive thoughts?” Dr. Martin asks.

“Define obsessive,” Dylan says. “And even if I do, I don't have the C. Maybe I have OD—look at that, all those people on the internet were sort of right—but not OCD. No compulsive actions.”

“You don't compulsively try to redirect worrying conversations and thoughts with humor?” Dr. Martin asks.

“Come on,” Dylan says. “Who _doesn't_ do that. No one wants to actually take shit seriously, that's how people end up—”

“Depressed?” Dr. Martin asks.

Dylan looks at her. Balks. “That's not—” he says, but he hits a blank. “So what,” he says. “Stop being funny? Lose my one redeeming characteristic, that's great advice.”

“Is that really how you feel?” Dr. Martin says. “That being funny is all you have to offer?”

“Just a second,” Dylan says, and barricades the bathroom door with his foot, and heaves over his toilet. His toilet, he's claimed this toilet, he's the Christopher Columbus of this toilet. It's here, he's here, so it must be his. Time to completely destroy it.

Except nothing comes.

He dry-heaves for a little while, hacks up some thick spit, but that's it. Comes back shamefaced.

New low: now he can't even vomit properly.

“Where did you just go,” Dr. Martin says.

“Um,” Dylan says. “The bathroom? Did you miss that?”

“In your mind,” Dr. Martin says. “Something triggered you, didn't it.”

“ _Triggered_ me,” Dylan says, scoffing. “I'm not a gun.”

“That's funny,” Dr. Martin says, completely humorlessly. “What does it mean to you to be funny? Who would you be if you weren't funny?”

“The Biggest Loser,” Dylan says. “Like, an award from Jillian Michaels, everything. I should try it.”

“What if you did?” Dr. Martin says.

What if he did? It's a suicidal suggestion. Dylan's bad enough company these days as it is. He doesn't know what's keeping Tyler coming back, either of them, honestly. A little bit of entertainment's the least Dylan can do.

Literally the least, but also... also the most. This is Dylan's thing, you know, the only thing. And why's that even bad? Some people's whole thing is looking like a really attractive mannequin. How's that better? Making Ty laugh, making Posey laugh, actually feeling like he belongs somewhere, for five seconds. When did that become the problem?

What the hell else does he have?

 

The first teaser for Terminal leaks two weeks early, and Tyler can't steal Dylan's laptop in time.

Alex is good, he's really good. Dylan's not so biased he can't admit that. He's got this really sweet charm, this easiness about him. This quiet, magnetic chemistry between him and Felicity, like old friends that can reconnect after years and years and nothing's changed at all. No fireworks, no insane electricity, but enough to make you go—oh. It's too bad that didn't work out. And feel a little twinge in your gut at every near miss.

Dylan knew Alex had him beat at the chemistry read. He knew that.

He didn't know it like he knows it now, but he knew.

He's really low key in unexpected ways, but it works. It makes sense. Dylan never would've played Micah like this in a thousand years, but he gets it.

And he's fine.

He's fine.

Mostly.

 

“I'm fine,” Dylan says, for the hundredth time. “I said I was done being an actor anyway. It's just a shame you couldn't do it.”

“You're not done being an actor,” Tyler says.

Dylan looks at him. “Wanna bet?”

“Yeah, I do,” Tyler says. “Sooner or later you're gonna realize your career's bigger than this movie. Or Teen Wolf. Or Blue fucking Mind.”

“Don't,” Dylan says, his face exploding with heat. Fucking Blue Mind. He should've just done a straight-out porno. At least then someone might've enjoyed it.

“Sorry,” Tyler says. “I still don't think it was that bad.”

“Yeah, and your Disney cartoon, with the dancing pumpkin, and the cartwheels? Some of your best work,” Dylan says.

Tyler's ears are a shade off purple. He puts his hands up in surrender. “You've made your point.”

“I mean, that cartwheel?” Dylan says. He can't resist. “Did you ever consider an Olympic bid?”

“Very briefly,” Tyler says.

Dylan looks at him, open-mouthed. “Seriously?”

“It wasn't,” Tyler starts, still not looking directly at him. “I would've had to—Acting was a better bet. And baseball,” he adds.

“There is a rich history here I am only beginning to plumb the depths of,” Dylan says in his best Indiana Jones voice.

“Shut up,” Tyler says.

 

Posey's determined, this time. He's got an _agenda_.

“It's too fucking quiet here,” he says. “I'd lose it in about five seconds. You need music.”

He makes Dylan a mixtape. An actual, honest-to-god mixtape, is this literally 1989? Where did Dylan stash that Walkman he had when he was six, again?

“I didn't wanna just put it on your phone,” Posey says. “Then you're doing all kinds of other shit while you're listening. It ruins it. You have to take away the distractions, man, just enjoy it the way we used to.”

“When we were kids, in the rockin' seventies?” Dylan suggests.

“I mean it,” Posey says. “Here, listen.”

He's got a pair of those massive noise-blocking headphones. No earbuds here.

“It's Blink, isn't it,” Dylan guesses, before he puts them on. “Just thirteen Blink-182 songs.”

“I'm not _that_ predictable,” Posey says. “There's [one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4E4IlgNKEA),” he admits. “Track three.”

“Oh my god, is there a handmade lyric insert?” Dylan says, pulling it out as the first song starts. “This is amazing.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Posey says urgently. “Just listen.”

“I've never been more serious, dude,” Dylan says, but he obeys anyway. “Holy shit, how have I never heard [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaTUhyvs9Yc) before?”

Posey grins. “Thought you'd like him.”

“Seriously, so good,” Dylan says. “Do you have one of those splitter things? You should get to enjoy this.”

“Nope,” Posey says regretfully. “Next time. Just enjoy it.”

“Na, man,” Dylan says, waving him close as the second song starts. “Oh, I know [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jltN3fLFmTQ) one. Love it. Come here, come on.”

They put their heads together, shoulders close, Dylan stretching the headphone over to Posey's ear.

And vibe the hell out.

 

It's fine, it's fine. It's just that Dylan's fallen into the habit of watching that teaser trailer on a loop, like a crazy person.

Maybe not _like_ a crazy person. Given recent events. Behavior at go-sees. Diagnoses. Medication doses.

Doh-sees.

Because Alex is good, he's really good, it's just—they liked Dylan. They wanted Dylan.

They just didn't “know if they could count on him.” Or whatever it was, some version of that.

And even blasting Posey's mixtape—that awesome Astronautalis track, Kendrick Lamar's depression confession and self-love anthem, that one really good Blink-182 song off their worst record (according to Posey, anyway)—he can't just let that go.

But it does help.

Sort of.

 

Tyler's going to work, but he's not happy about it. His producers have promised him this is the last batch of new scenes, but he doesn't have much faith in their word at this point.

“I'll be fine,” Dylan says. “I've got meds, I've got music. I've got beepy machines morse-coding dubious, possibly nefarious machinations. What more could a guy ask for?”

No jokes, right, but it isn't, really. And she can't count sarcasm. He'd have to superglue his mouth shut.

“I love you,” Tyler says.

“I know,” Dylan says, and doesn't even realize what he's quoting until Tyler texts him from the car.

 

There's a good couple of days. Too good. Dylan's impatient, waiting for the inevitable low to come, knock him flat.

And then it does.

The studio releases the full Terminal trailer in all its glory, and it's glorious. It's exactly right.

In exactly all the ways Dylan would've gotten it wrong.

Micah's quiet, he's easy. He's not some embittered guy just because he and his girl have split, he's got a whole life outside that. He knows pain, but he's not soaked in it, you know? He's got friends, he's got family. A girl he's seeing kind of tentatively—Dylan just rejected that whole side of him, dove deep into the sadness. And it's a subtle sadness, almost a secret. But nothing that dramatic.

He's just a guy, you know? A real guy.

Dylan would've made him a headcase.

And the beauty in this is the progression, how Micah slowly falls apart, how he comes back together, somehow, and builds his little broken family into something less broken, without going all Hollywood about it.

Dylan's completely fucking humiliated at his take on it, now. Seeing this, seeing how fucking perfect this is.

And it's just the fucking trailer.

This movie's gonna fucking kill him. Everywhere he goes, every time he sees a poster, or a teaser, any of the actor's faces, every time he's in a fucking _terminal_ , he's gonna remember how bad he blew it.

So that's it, that's a fucking sign. And Dylan doesn't believe in signs, doesn't really believe in anything, but it's never been clearer.

Dylan O'Brien, actor.

There's his funniest fucking joke, right there.

 

There's a futile attempt to eat, but everything tastes like tin. Chicken soup, fine, maybe that came from a tin, but Jell-o? Apple juice? In a little apple sauce cup, too, not a cup cup. Hospital food's weird as hell. Those little Lorna Doone shortbread cookies, everything's coated in just a fine, subtle aftertaste of metal. A really nuanced, layered flavor of robot food, just under the normal food.

Can't wait to suck Tyler's robot dick. Taste the rusty rainbow.

Okay, that's kinda gross, even for Dylan.

He's feeling itchy, all day, not like scratchy but just—his skin's crawling, whenever anyone comes by. Even Posey, Dylan's not feeling it, even if the look on Posey's face makes him maybe the guiltiest he's ever felt. Sorry, sorry sorry sorry, it doesn't even feel like a real word anymore. Just two syllables to shove at people that hurt less than _get lost_.

So Tyler can just stay at work forever, please. The plan is faking sleep from the moment the door opens, not budging. Dylan used to be an actor, sort of—He can do that much, surely.

Tyler's been texting, all day, and Dylan's been firing back one word replies, or just emojis, trying not to hate him.

And it's a plan, it's a solid plan. Fake sleep, how hard is that? Except Tyler comes through the door when Dylan's listening to the last couple of tracks on Posey's mix again, and Dylan's suddenly swollen with resentment. Why should he have to turn it off, play dead for an age, for as long as it takes Tyler to GTFO?

So he doesn't. He compromises, doesn't look up from the CD player in his hands, that little slice of exposed disc swirling round and round and round. He's just a stone monument of a 90's kid, a literal radiohead. In a whole other world.

“Dylan,” Tyler says. Coming closer, closer. Dylan stops breathing. “Hey. What's going on?”

And Dylan doesn't mean to, doesn't think it through, just finds himself wrenching off the headphones, saying, “Can't I be my own person for five fucking seconds? Are you the only one who gets a life?”

Tyler just looks at him for a long moment. Then he says, with extreme calm, “What life.”

“I really can't breathe today,” Dylan says, instead of attempting to answer that. “With anyone around, I can't—I just can't.”

“What's going on,” Tyler asks, concern flooding his features, and Dylan really can't take the pity anymore.

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing's fucking going on with me. Or ever will again.”

“Dylan,” Tyler says, and turns the laptop screen to face him, and nods.

And that's not—he thinks he knows, thinks it's so fucking simple, but it's not.

“Okay,” Tyler says. “Okay. Can I ask for something? Just this one thing, and I'll leave you alone.”

“Do I look like I'm in a sexy mood,” Dylan starts, but Tyler says,

“Hit me.”

Dylan stares at him.

“I'm— _What?_ I'm not gonna _hit_ you.”

He knows how he's been lately, what a tool he is on the regular, especially to Tyler, to the last person who could ever deserve it, but _that_?

“Just do me a favor,” Tyler says. “I'm not asking you to—hurt me. Just—”

“ _Good_ ,” Dylan says emphatically. “Because that's—I'm not doing that.”

“Why not?” Tyler says. “Terminal was your movie. Your chance.”

“Yeah, no, it wasn't,” Dylan says. “I screwed up the audition. Twice. I'm not gonna _beat_ you for it, god.” Something in his stomach is alive, writhing. “Why would you—Is that—Did Brittany _do_ that?”

“What?” Tyler laughs, and then sobers. “No,” he says. “But Stiles did.”

Of course. Dylan lets out a long gust of breath. That scene, that stupid Sterek scene. That's all this is.

“I'm not Stiles,” he says.

“You could be,” Tyler says. “I wouldn't mind. It might—help.”

“Stiles was an abusive jackass,” Dylan says. He can't exactly breathe. Or even begin to understand this. “Derek should have had some—some freaking self respect.”

“Maybe Derek thought it was worth it,” Tyler says. “Being there for Stiles. Any way he could.”

“Yeah, well, well that's,” Dylan says. Tries to say. His chin is trembling, face twisting into tears with or without him. “Why would—why would anyone care that much.”

“Why wouldn't they?” Tyler says, and Dylan can't—can't look at him. Can't breathe through the lump in his throat, can't see.

“Because he's a tool,” Dylan manages, voice tight, unsteady. “Because he doesn't deserve—anything. Or anybody, he's just this screwed up, this narcissistic, self-absorbed _headcase_ —”

“Narcissistic _and_ self absorbed,” Tyler says, faintly amused, but Dylan's stupid body makes a sobby sound despite him and Tyler goes serious again. “You really believe that?”

“What's not to believe,” Dylan says, blinking wetly at blurry nothing.

“Should I start from the beginning?” Tyler says. “I know you're hard on yourself, but this is—”

“Don't, don't,” Dylan says, frustrated. “Don't turn this around on me, this isn't some, some tragic sob story, like any minute now I'm gonna start just openly weeping about being bullied as a kid, and you're gonna go, see, that's why you see yourself this way, you're like that cartoon of an anorexic girl seeing a mountain in the mirror—”

“Dylan,” Tyler says, and Dylan says, “No, shut up, this is bullshit. Cue the freaking violins, and the choir of little kids, okay, just stop it. Just _stop_ —”

“Hit me,” Tyler says.

“Will you—” Dylan pushes the air near Tyler's side, says, “There, your shadow's gonna be crooked for the rest of your life. Look, it's all disoriented. Hope you're happy.”

“Really go for it,” Tyler says. “Hard. I want you to.”

“I don't wanna _fucking—_ ” Dylan says, and stands, and shoves him, and stumbles.

Tyler catches him, catches his by the shoulders, pulls him close. And Dylan, by some stupid, unthinking instinct Dylan latches on to him, can't let go. And he's shaking, he's shaking, he can't stop.

Tyler's hands on his shoulders, all down his back, he's speaking softly. And they did this scene. They wrote this scene, Tyler wrote this scene, it means—it's Stiles, finally losing control, and accepting it. It's Derek, saying, lean on me. Just lean on me. I want you to.

However I can help you, whatever I can be for you, I'm here. I'm here.

And that's one thing you can always be sure of.

But wordless, it's all implicit, Stiles just shaking, his fists no longer fighting, Derek's healing and holding him, and just muttering, “It's okay. It's okay.”

And it shouldn't be like finally breathing, it shouldn't feel like everything, but it does.

It does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posey's mixtape:
> 
> 1\. [oceanwalk - astronautalis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaTUhyvs9Yc)
> 
> 2\. [i - kendrick lamar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jltN3fLFmTQ)
> 
> 3\. [after midnight - blink 182](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4E4IlgNKEA)
> 
> 4\. [car radio (triple layered) - twenty one pilots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZpT31bHVhs)
> 
> 5\. [all these things i've done - the killers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4sesUEiTcXo)
> 
> 6\. [S.I.N.G. - my chemical romance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ks6Kiw_PuyI)
> 
> 7\. [architects - rise against](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMdrAYMlL1k)
> 
> 8\. [all i want - the offspring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFF14JBtmu8)
> 
> 9\. [hood party - fat tony ft kool a.d. & despot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6m64vVTeRmk)
> 
> 10\. [umbrella - all time low](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVEZzUpRPZo)
> 
> 11\. [prove it - divided by friday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hr7drhQn8V0)
> 
> 12\. [surrender - angels & airwaves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RM73er53inA)
> 
> 13\. [the river, the woods - astronautalis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KE8S3493u9g)
> 
> or [listen on 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/swearimsober/good-music-and-a-goofy-picture-of-your-boyfriend-an-inside-thing)


	21. where the heart is

They're watching old Flight of the Conchords videos on YouTube when Dylan goes still.

“Oh shit,” he says.

Tyler lifts his head from Dylan's shoulder, looks at him muzzily, then the screen.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Dylan is saying, kind of bouncing a little, grabbing his phone.

“What,” Tyler says, because he's kind of been half-sleeping for the past ten minutes, and for all he knows it's the fucking rapture. Dylan's definitely excited about it, whatever it is.

Good, good. Tyler likes when Dylan's excited. Doesn't really matter over what. Nice to just see his eyes light up, and his—everything about him just changes, all at once. And he's happy.

Tyler loves it when Dylan's happy.

He's texting someone, and then he isn't, he's dropping his phone in his lap and kissing Tyler full on the mouth, eyes shining.

“What,” Tyler says when he pulls back, barely impatient. The answer can be anything, Tyler already likes it.

“I know what I want our movie to be about,” Dylan says.

 

“So my guy writes these little dumb funny songs, it's nothing,” Dylan says. “Just amusing himself, just amusing your dude. There's a bunch of little, funny parodies, maybe a couple of semi-sincere songs, you know. Random little lines of nothing. And your dude Vines a couple of them, and it blows up.”

“And not just because I can't sing,” Hoechlin clarifies.

“Oh, funny,” Dylan says. “You'll be great, think of, think of that Why you always lyin' dude.”

Tyler looks at him blankly.

“It's this Vine thing, here—” Dylan grabs his phone again.

And gives Tyler an education.

“And there's this, like, festival thing, this musical comedy festival thing, and you’re contacted about it,” Dylan says. “And you like, pressure my dude to do it with you. And he's like no, no way, massive anxiety. But he gets like, really drunk, and does it, and I don't know, it's a thing. Weird drunk off-key comedy shit, I don't know. Maybe it's not—Forget it.”

And he's dimming, shrinking back into himself, and Tyler can't reassure him fast enough.

“No, it'll be funny,” he says. “Like this stuff, these guys, who would've ever thought—But it's hilarious.”

“Right?” Dylan says, perking up again.

“They should reform,” Tyler says. “Like, we could make an actual musical comedy festival. How hard can it be? And get a bunch of guest stars that way.”

“A Flight of the Conchords reunion,” Dylan says, eyes huge. “And like, Rachel Bloom, and Garfunkel and Oates, and, and The Lonely Island, and fucking—Slow Kids at Play. In descending order of realistic possibility,” he adds, deflating again.

“They're not gonna turn down a movie,” Tyler says.

“What? Max is on TV more than fucking I am this year,” Dylan says. “Like two minutes away from racking up awards and shit. And Hunter thinks I'm this aloof, overrated prick, so... I don't really know what they would or wouldn't do,” Dylan says. “I'm pretty sure they all hate me now.”

“Even Rachel Bloom?” Tyler jokes, badly.

“Shut up, you know what I...” Dylan shakes his head. “I'm such a tool. Just like, this ivory tower cliché.”

“You're not,” Tyler says. “You're not. You didn't cut them out of your life on purpose. You just built it up in your head. Like with Tyler, or your parents, or—me, even. Like I was just gonna fight you, or hate you, or you'd do something wrong and I'd—It's not true.”

“Wise words from Tyler Hoechlin,” Dylan says. “Wise, old, wizened Tyler Hoechlin.”

“I'm serious,” Tyler says, trying not to flinch. He's not even thirty yet, he's not—Even if he looks forty, which is apparently the general consensus.

Even if he doesn't know anything about Vine. Or tumblr, any of it. Any of the other ones.

“Yeah, no, I know,” Dylan says. “I'm working on it. Not having a joke for everything. And not—getting in my head, all the time. Self sabotaging.”

Maybe Tyler's just ancient now. For real. He's aged out of the core ad demographic, he knows that. Mad Men taught him that.

Camille's always talking about something Tyler's never heard of like it's the most obvious thing, and when he tries to return the favor, something he saw on Twitter, or Instagram, she just laughs and goes, “Oh, I _forgot_ about that. That's from like four years ago, wow. Like when I was in high school.”

And it's not—She's twenty, of course it's not the same. But Colton's just as aware of everything. So really, Tyler has no excuse.

“Hey,” Dylan says. “Tyler. You okay?”

His hand on Tyler's shoulder, his arm, bringing him back to now.

But Tyler hasn't been to the gym in months, hasn't been in anything but this purgatorial horror movie in months, and all at once he can feel himself fading.

“Fine,” Tyler says. He nods, nods again. “Yeah, definitely. What's my guy about?”

 

“I was thinking like a baseball player,” Dylan says. “Or, or an Olympic gymnast, dream big, right?”

It shouldn't sting. Tyler doesn't even know why it bothers him at all. They're great suggestions.

“So my guy, right, he's, he's like this physical therapist. And your guy can have some sports injury, like... I don't know, some sports injury. We'll figure it out. So that's how he meets my guy, you know? And his life's kind of at this standstill.”

“Who's,” Tyler says, maybe a little woodenly. It's fine, he's fine. It's just—there's this thing, about Dylan's jokes, and his stories.

They're always a little bit true.

And maybe Tyler's just been blocking out every indication that he's this aging guy who's not going anywhere in his life, who has all these sad fading dreams and nothing to show for it, but that obviously hasn't stopped Dylan making a note of it.

Tyler could've done Terminal, he could've—He's had opportunities. Could've played baseball, chose differently. It's not like anyone but him ever cut him off at the knees.

But maybe that doesn't matter, in the end. Because besides for you, no one else really remembers the history.

They just see the result.

 

“Well my guy's been stalled kind of all of his life,” Dylan says. “Like he has this job, it's a good job, he's good at it, it's just not—You know, you start telling people what you think you might wanna do with your life, they're not always gonna throw you a party about it, first thing. So he kind of went with the, you know, the practical option.”

“You didn't,” Tyler says. “You went straight for what you wanted. Didn't hesitate.”

“This isn't my autobiography,” Dylan says. “That would be so lame. I'm twenty-four. Might as well hand myself a lifetime achievement award and a muzzle in the mouth, in that case.”

“My mistake,” Tyler mutters. Dylan looks at him.

“What's up with you?” he asks, and his palm's back on Tyler's shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down like the world's tiniest massage.

“Nothing,” Tyler says, and can't help the tension in his voice.

“You don't like it,” Dylan realizes. His whole body shape changes like a Transformer, hands to himself, shoulders sinking small. “We'll do something else,” he says. “We could do something else, we could do—You had a better idea, anyway. With the undercover—”

“I didn't say anything,” Tyler says. He's so sick of this, walking on eggshells like this. “Stop reading into everything I do. Everything's fine. Your idea's great.”

“It's stupid,” Dylan says. He's not even looking at Tyler anymore. “You should be the main character, I'm not even—I'll just be behind the camera. Maybe be an extra or something, some crowd scene.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Tyler grinds out. “For five fucking seconds, Jesus, let something not be about you.”

Dylan goes still.

Then he's nodding, nodding, nodding. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry. Forget it.”

And faking fine, and he isn't, he's miserable again.

More than miserable, he's—Eyes darting, like he's been cornered, like he's trapped, and then he says, “I'm just—Forget it,” and bolts to the bathroom.

And he's not being sick, he's not, but it's small consolation, when he comes back too long after, red-eyed, too casual.

“Dylan,” Tyler says, sick at himself.

“No, don't,” Dylan says. “We don't—you don't have to do anything. You're—I'm just being an idiot. Over—” But he stops, swallows hard. “I'm just a crazy person, you know,” he says, grinning horribly. “Taking everything out of context, in the worst way. Same old, same old.”

“You're not,” Tyler says heavily. “I'm being passive aggressive. It's not fair to expect—You can't read my mind.”

“Feels like I can,” Dylan says. “Feels so fucking obvious, all the time.”

“Well that's not me,” Tyler says. “That voice in your head, making you feel like shit? That's not me. I don't think like that.”

“You're allowed to not like my ideas,” Dylan says, his voice small.

“Yeah, I know,” Tyler says. “Doesn't change the fact that I do. Pretty much all the time. Newsflash, when you're brain's not trying to kill you, it's pretty fucking smart. And funny.”

“Yeah, I don't know,” Dylan says. “I start feeling like I'm making progress, like I'm actually almost sane for two consecutive seconds, and then—And here I go, writing my fucking autobiography after all. And that's a joke,” he adds, “and I'm not supposed to. I'm supposed to stay in the shitty moment. Just really sink my teeth into it. So here goes.”

“I was just thinking,” Tyler says, into the too silent silence, Dylan stuck in some bad thought, alone. “About... baseball. And Terminal. And everything else.”

“Should've made you do Terminal,” Dylan says.

“You tried,” Tyler says. “It was my decision. It was always my decision. Baseball, the fucking Olympics. Everything. I could've went for it. I didn't. There's no one else to blame.”

“If I wasn't such a—” Dylan starts, and Tyler says, “There's _no one else to blame_. It's my life. My responsibility to go after something if I want it. And I guess I thought I was doing that, but maybe I was just...”

It's strange, being so confessional. Being so confessional _sober_. Tyler's really not used to it.

Still, maybe it's time he took a turn.

“Maybe I was just dodging,” Tyler says. “Any kind of big gamble, or uncertainty. Anything without a back-up plan.”

“Ty,” Dylan says, soft.

“It's okay,” Tyler says. “It just kind of.. puts things in a new light. Maybe not such a positive one.”

“But you like acting,” Dylan says. “Don't you?”

“Of course,” Tyler says. “Just—maybe not as much as other things. That I just sort of... gave up on, without even really realizing it.”

“So don't,” Dylan says. “Do it now.”

“Yeah, I'll just get on that,” Tyler says. “Major Leagues, here I come. Or, or the Olympics. Why wouldn't they let one thirty year old in with all the teenagers?”

“I mean it,” Dylan says, and stops. “You're not thirty. You're not even twenty-ni—Did I miss your birthday? September, right?”

“We both know I'm basically forty,” Tyler says. He smirks, eyebrows high. It feels a little plastic. “At least that's what you young people seem to be saying.”

“Shut up,” Dylan says, smacking Tyler's chest. Keeping his hand there, though, warm and steady. “I didn't mean it like that. I meant—you know, the beard, and the confidence. Like you had the whole world figured out for decades, while I was just—scrambling. Falling on my face half the time. It's intimidating.”

“And Camille, she's really intimidated too,” Tyler says.

“Fuck Camille,” Dylan says. “She's like ten. It's like when I was a kid, I had this babysitter, and I thought he was like, thirty. A real adult, you know? Turns out he was like seventeen. Some idiot high school kid, what high school guy even babysits? But what did I know? I was like four. He was really tall and a Mets fan and knew the answer to pretty much anything my four-year-old brain could throw at him. So I just assumed. Camille's twenty,” Dylan says. “Thirty's like, a million years away from twenty. In terms of fear factor. You know, everyone's trying to stay young forever. Especially around here.”

“Hospitals,” Tyler says, nodding.

“Mental health clinics, sure,” Dylan says, but he's laughing. “You know, maybe we're all a little crazy. And like, insecure. No matter how well we're doing. There's always that tick tick tick, like, 'oh shit, is this how it ends? Is it all downhill from here? Shit. I'm too young to die. Or get old. Or whatever. And I didn't even get close to where I wanted to go, shit! It's all pointless.'”

“Whoa,” Tyler says, more breath than sound.

“And we're in our fucking twenties, and we're wasting it,” Dylan says. “Just freaking out about how other people see us. And like, our stature in life, and how far up this stupid nonexistent ladder we are. You know? I'm babbling,” he says, covering his face.

“You're not,” Tyler says. “You're not.” It's like things are finally starting to slot into place. “We should use this.”

“Use this,” Dylan says, lost.

“In our movie,” Tyler says. “It's not just us. It's a universal truth. It'll resonate.”

“God,” Dylan says, his ears pinking behind his hand. “You think?”

“Definitely,” Tyler says. “Your guy, he's stuck, right? He's afraid to move, or take a risk. And my guy, that's all he's done, all his life, and now it's out of his hands. He's injured, he can't keep moving up that ladder. And he's watching his competitors just rise and rise, and he can't handle it. And they maybe have to—try each other's methods, for once. It's like that AA saying. Accept the things I cannot change, have courage to change the things you can. Except less preachy,” Tyler clarifies. “It shouldn't be preachy. Just—they help each other.”

“Just this fun, funny movie,” Dylan agrees. “But with heart. Yeah.”

“And musical comedy,” Tyler says, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. This could be good. Like really, really good.”

“Time to open up Word?” Dylan suggests.

“Do it,” Tyler says, and goes for his glasses.

 

The last week of Harvest is the hardest, the end so close, but still so uncertain. Tyler's starting to have waking nightmares about finally making it through that last day, only to be slapped with a new pile of sides on his way out. A burst of horror music plays, and the camera pulls away as Tyler falls to his knees, screaming, “Nooooooo!” at a length that would put Garth Marenghi's Darkplace's pilot episode to shame. And there's a show Tyler would never have heard about, ever, but Dylan found it somehow, and it's incredible. Incredibly, cringingly bad acting, but brilliant somehow.

“I'll sext you,” Dylan says as Tyler leaves, four infinitely long days left, and Tyler's sure he's heard wrong until his phone vibrates in the car, and it's—fucking filthy, but exactly—and it's Tyler's car, it's Tyler's car. What he does in his car, windows up, no one watching, is his own business.

He starts to get really affected by just the vibration of his phone, knowing it's Dylan, knowing it's probably—and then reading it, choking a little bit, excusing himself and finding some private place, the first—his trailer, or the honey-wagons, anywhere, thisclose to already gone. Heat flooding through him, dick twitching, he barely has time to get his hands on himself before—

And then catching his breath, floating in it, half a dozen pulses pounding and pounding and everything but Dylan turning as irrelevant as fiction.

 _I love you_ , he texts, when there's feeling in his trembling fingers, blood rushing back slowly.

 _SAME!_ Dylan responds—they've been watching Arrested Development.

And Tyler's mind is so clear, he's never been surer. In his bed in his trailer, holding his phone, that stupid joke shaking his shoulders, it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Tyler never wants to not have this.

He goes back to set, eventually, when he can fix his breathing almost ordinary; goes back to being Tommy, the bleeding, sweaty, shirtless ghost-with-an-ax-to-grind, pun not intended. Gets through it, moves past it.

Goes back to Dylan, goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the hobrien song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVoCJJFuS60), by flight of the conchords


	22. night tremors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> donut be alarmed! just flashbacks

"Alright, this has gone on long enough," Ian says, stealing the wine. Tyler frowns at him, kind of reaches out to fight him when a phone is thrust in his face.

Tyler's reflection blinks at him glumly.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Ian says. "That is not the face of a man who is not drowning in sex. Not in any civilized nation."

"I don't..." Tyler starts, but it's not worth the effort. Once Ian's got a point to make, it's near impossible to change the subject.

"You're in the prime of your life," Ian tells him, not for the first time. "Physically, emotionally. Sexually," he adds, and Tyler's not looking, but he can imagine what Ian's face is doing.

"Emotionally," Tyler says, instead of encouraging him. "I don't feel anything. At all." Drunk, maybe. If he can wrest the bottle back, definitely.

"Exactly," Ian says. "You're a man now. Mazel tov."

Tyler rolls his eyes.

 

"You're young," Ian says in Tyler's trailer, apropos of nothing. They were just running lines, but sure, lets have this conversation. "Breakups still feel like the end of the world. But it's not the end."

Tyler can practically hear the inspirational music being added in post.

"It's the beginning," Ian says, completely devoid of irony. "This is a good thing."

"First day of the rest of my life," Tyler says, dry.

"That's it," Ian says. "Think about it: You weren't happy. No, really," he says, before Tyler can get a word out. "I know, I know it's _Dylan_ , I know he's sugar and spice and everything nice, but he didn't know what he had."

"And what's that," Tyler says, if only to get to the end of this pep talk without a homicide.

"You could have anyone," Ian says. "Male, female... in between. At once, or one after the other. You just say how high," he says dramatically. "The floor'll tremble with all the people jumping."

"It doesn't matter," Tyler says. There's really nothing else he can say to that. "I don't... That's not how I am."

"How _are_ you?" Ian asks. "Sad? Lonely? Abstinent."

"I didn't say that," Tyler says, flushing.

"Abstinence is the number one cause of teen pregnancy," Ian says, and if there's one conversation Tyler wants to have even less than one about his break up, it's politics.

"Funny," he says flatly, and stands. "Let me get you a drink."

"I'm driving," Ian says. "I'm surprised at you," he adds. "Alcohol? On a _work night_?" He tsks. "Such a bad influence."

"You're a dick," Tyler says.

 

“Why don't you just try,” Ian starts, and Tyler says, “Why don't you?”

He sounds like a child.

He face-palms, doesn't look up. Ian pats his shoulder commiseratingly.

Dylan used to do that.

"I'm not gonna go on a date with someone I don't even know," Tyler says, eventually.

"It's not a date," Ian says. "It's coffee. You're an actor, he's an actor. You can always just network."

"My favorite," Tyler says.

"Or you can fuck," Ian says. He taps at his screen, puts his phone in Tyler's face. Tyler bats it away ineffectively. "Spartacus," he says proudly.

"Am I supposed to know..." Tyler says, but he's seen that face before. "He's gay?" he says.

"Straight men don't take gay roles," Ian says.

Like he's done studies, confirmed the stats.

"You don't know that," Tyler says.

"Oh, I do," Ian says, and all at once Tyler's sure he has done the research.

In his own way.

"Jake Gyllenhaal," Tyler tries.

"Really?" Ian says. " _That's_ your response. That's the exception."

"Heath Ledger," Tyler says, but he's suddenly doubting everything he ever thought he knew. About the sexuality of strangers.

Honestly, Tyler doesn't really understand himself, sometimes.

"Forget it," he says. Gay or not, it doesn't matter. Nothing's gonna happen with this—with anyone. There's a scene, Tyler has a scene with Dylan in it, in two episodes. He's not gonna start looking around with things still so up in the air.

Maybe we shouldn't, Tyler said, just trying to have a conversation. Just a little sick of Dylan acting like Tyler's this incredible, unattainable thing, until Posey shows up, and it's a giant joke again.

He didn't mean it as an attack, or a fight, however Dylan took it. Whatever made him look like he'd been slapped, in the second before he said, "No, yeah, absolutely," and just—cut Tyler out of his life. And refused to even admit it, that that's what it was, that they were done. Just extended that public persona he put on for Posey and everyone else to private, acted like that was all there ever was.

And then there wasn't anything private, ever. Which—He's a busy guy; it's probably not even an excuse, most of the time. But he always made time, before.

Made an effort.

Whatever, whatever. Tyler's getting a headache. And Ian's still waiting, tapping through Google Images to show him the full reel of Spartacus' attributes. Tyler nods and hums enough to get the phone out of his face, doesn't think about it much. It's probably not representative, anyway. Tyler couldn't look like his best shots without four hours hair and makeup, some kind of fitting, the perfect blend of lights and filters, and about a thousand readjustments between takes. And he lost most of the bulk he put on for the alpha storyline, now that Derek's a beta again.

Not that he actually thinks that's what did it, but maybe... He can hit the gym, see what he can do. Can't hurt, right? And it's good to have goals, as long as they're healthy.

So, okay. He'll figure it out, what he had before, what he's missing. And just go in like nothing's different, just get right back to where they were. Come up with some scene, maybe, some Sterek thing; Dylan always likes that.

And just ignore this, Ian's hedonistic philosophies, everything he thinks he knows, he doesn't.

No one ever accomplished anything being negative.

 

He puts on some weight between then and now, a little muscle. Doesn't come close to season two, obviously, but it's not like he really expected to. He did his best, that's what's important.

It's fine.

It's hard to tell if Dylan notices; at first, he seems to be trying not to look at Tyler at all. Even when he touches him, Tyler untensing at just the hint, it's barely momentary, and he's still talking to Sprayberry, not really addressing Tyler at all.

"So the scene," Dylan says finally, when it's unavoidable. Hands to himself, stiff at his sides.

"The scene," Tyler echoes, and then that's all he can think to say, except, "Seems pretty straightforward."

Riveting.

"Yep," Dylan says, and that's it; that's all. A couple hours being Derek, and then they've got nothing connecting them, ever again.

"How've you been?" Tyler can't tell if he sounds as desperate as he feels. He's trying to be cool, blasé. He's trying.

"Great," Dylan says, and it's that talking-to-strangers voice. "So great," he adds, nodding. "I can actually sleep most days now, so, you know, that's a plus."

"You weren't sleeping?" Tyler says. He didn't know that. Dylan gets insomnia sometimes, with any big bout of nerves, but he's been doing really well for a while now. Or Tyler thought so, anyway.

"That's the job," Dylan says, but it's not. When Dylan's overworked, he's out like a light in a second. Instant REM. Just add pillow.

Tyler misses whatever Dylan's still saying, caught on the lie. Not that it's even any of his business, anymore, but that doesn't mean he can just stop caring on a whim.

"Yeah, I don't even know," Dylan says. "I think I like, permanently scrambled my brain with all the physical stuff for the movie." He's getting more and more nervous the longer this goes, fidgeting anxiously. Tyler doesn't know what he's doing, how to stop, but clearly small talk isn't helping.

"I bet it'll look awesome, though," he says, just to end the conversation, get back to the scene. He can—think of something funny, try to, or—or just stop trying so hard. That's it, that's why everything feels so forced and awful, they're both doing it. Dylan's just mirroring him.

But the moment never comes, any kind of real opportunity, and then it's too late. Dylan heads back to his trailer, and Tyler follows him for a few steps, falters when Dylan looks back. He throws up a weird wave, like a peace sign with extra fingers, and turns back around, and that's it. It's over, Tyler's been dismissed.

He finds his breath, his car, his phone. Not necessarily in that order. Calls Ian, just to stop feeling so unsteady.

"How'd it," Ian starts, and Tyler says, "Fine. Yeah, I'm in."

His hands settle at ten and two, and he drives until [Sail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CaypEojjKQ) comes on the radio, and then he just turns it up and keeps driving.

 

"Let me guess," Dan says. "You wanted out. He didn't."

He ordered before Tyler got to the table, greeted him with a wide grin. Ian's right, he's attractive, and Tyler thinks maybe—Maybe that's all he needs right now. Maybe everything else is just some kind of masochistic joke, where you can never feel confident in anything. Try to have one conversation, and the whole thing just slips through your fingers. Then you get to feel like shit forever, get high and resentful and drunk and sorry, and none of it changes anything. So you can have empty sex and control, or you can be idealistic and fuck up and come up empty. Pick a card, any card, but the whole deck's stacked against you regardless.

So why even bother?

"Alright, it's not a guess," Dan says. His accent's nice. Distracting, and Tyler needs distracting. "I'll admit, I Googled you. There's this thing, this blog, Gossip King. It lit up like a firecracker."

Nothing makes Tyler's hackles rise more than tabloids, or anything with _gossip_ in the title. Anything that makes a life out of peddling people's privacy, turning the people they trust into _sources_ , distorting the truth and extorting anyone who can be threatened by bad press.

"If you ask me, honestly, you dodged a bullet," Dan says.

Tyler's pretty sure he didn't ask, actually. Not that Dan seems to notice.

"He was bringing you down, mate," Dan goes on. "Only looking out for number one. And that sure wasn't you."

"Stop," Tyler says, too softly.

"People like that are all too common in this business," Dan says. "It's so hard to really make a lasting connection. All this complication... coming out, staying in... the egos involved are just astronomical."

"You don't know," Tyler says, shaking his head, "you don’t know him." It's Ian, but worse. This guy isn't his friend. He doesn't know the first thing about Tyler's life he didn't get off the internet.

Dan laughs. "You've still got his blinders on."

"You don't know him," Tyler says, more firmly. "Some _blog_ sure as hell doesn’t."

"I'm on your side," Dan says, hands up. "Do you choose your partner, or social pressure? I've never let a PR threat stop me from investing in something I cared about. I don’t care if I'm—pigeon holed,” he says, and there's that laugh again. It's really not a laugh at all. "My life, my loves, my business, is my business. No one works my mouth but me."

It is a butt, Tyler realizes. The sound when he laughs, it's not a laugh at all. It's a throat fart.

Once he's worked it out, it's almost funny. More than anything, Tyler wants to text Dylan, or see him, tell him about it. Hear Dylan's laugh, an actual laugh, the best one.

But he can't. And all at once, he can't stomach any of this. He can't shake the sick, drowning feeling he's made the biggest mistake he could. upended the best thing, for what? For this? Empty dates and empty conversations, everything he hates combined into one presumptive package, and the knowledge that he might've let it go, his preferences and hang ups, assumed this is all there is. He might've never known what an actual connection feels like. If not for Dylan, this would just be another day. Just another bleak realization: come on, T. You can't be so idealistic. Or do you _like_ being alone?

 

"What did I tell you?" Ian says, later. "He's not just attractive. He's _Spartacus_ attractive."

"Yeah," Tyler says blandly.

"You're in the prime of your life," Ian says again. "You could have anyone.”

That feeling Dylan once tried to explain, the walls closing in. Tyler's never understood it like this before. Like the rest of his life is a sped-up scene with no cuts, just one winding take. One long line of anyones, none of them the right one. Because he had the right one.

"So?" Ian prods. He's smirking, proud. "Are you gonna see him again?"

"No," Tyler says, sure. Ian laughs, slaps him on the back.

"That's my boy," he says.

 

Tyler's up too abruptly, tense and illogically caught up in something he knows is—over, done and dealt with. The dream already fading into nothing, just the residual emotions lingering even with the evidence to the contrary already calming the reasonable part of him down.

“Whssamatter,” Dylan says, patting at him drowsily.

“Nothing,” Tyler says. Just reaching out, touching him, being touched, like its nothing. Just talking, not having to worry about what to say. Or having to say anything at all. “I love you.”

“Aww, me too,” Dylan says, grinning goofily. “You, I mean.”

“I know,” Tyler says.

“Star W'rs?” Dylan says.

“That too,” Tyler says, and earns Dylan's hand over his face, shushing him. Stilling, waking up in increments.

“Nooo,” Dylan says, scrubbing at his eyes. “No, hold up, Ty, hey. What's going on?”

“What,” Tyler says, blinking at him.

“Nightmare?” Dylan asks. Somehow all the blankets always end up on his side; he fixes them around Tyler, only to change his mind and push them away to nuzzle at Tyler's shoulder.

“Something like that,” Tyler says.

“Wanna talk?” Dylan says.

“Not... really,” Tyler hedges.

“It’s just,” Dylan says. “You were crying.”

“Oh,” Tyler says.

Dylan's faltering, going quiet, taking his hands back, and Tyler doesn't like that at all.

“No, no,” he says. “Just... missed you. Last year.”

“Boo, last year,” Dylan agrees.

 

“I think I knew, by then,” Tyler says. Kind of—nervous to go back to sleep, stupidly. To lose this, or feel like it. “That it was you. That no one else was gonna come close.”

Dylan nods, nods, his hair tickling Tyler's throat. It feels good to be so close, to have this nice steady weight, this security. To not even notice it, most of the time, now, just settle into it without a thought.

“So when...” Tyler says, but he doesn’t wanna say it. “It was just hard.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says.

“But that's the past,” Tyler says. “That's—We're good.”

“Real good,” Dylan says; he's starting to relax again. Good, good. “'Ngaged.”

“Getting married,” Tyler says, smiling just saying it. Turning to Dylan, grinning at him.

He's already out like a light.

 

It's just a little more complicated than Tyler expected, juggling arrangements and all that, and the movie—and Dylan's directing, too. His debut. That's enough to scramble anyone's schedule.

And he doesn't mind it, not really. Tyler doesn't believe in the, whatever the cliché is, that it all has some big, deeper meaning. That every off thing is some omen, is somehow representative.

A couple missed tastings, that doesn't matter. A couple lost deposits, it's nothing. Everything’s gonna be fine.

Better, better than fine.

Everything’s gonna be amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the prime time of your life - daft punk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDiS-_GP7do) (this song may make you hyperventilate)
> 
>  
> 
> no offense to rl spartacus guy, but his laugh is truly the worst


	23. tourniquet

“Dylan, hey,” Jonathan Trotter says. No biggie, just a dude with the freaking _New York Times_. Totally fine if Dylan blows this. “How are you?”

And that, that used to just be a question. Simple, obvious small talk, but now...

Now Dylan can't shake the feeling that someone _knows_. That everyone's talking about it, just quiet enough for him to miss it. Yeah, after he got fired? And tried that desperate little YouTube audition? Guy had a nervous breakdown. Just—completely, completely lost it.

“Great, you know,” he says, fighting to keep his fidget-frantic fingers to themselves. “Yeah, it's been a little crazy, with...”

Shit, he didn’t mean to... That's not what he meant, at all. He laughs nervously, laughs harder.

“You know, it's a little nerve-wracking, directing. But I couldn't ask for a better cast,” he jokes, practically begging Trotter to pick up what he's laying down, head down the obvious road.

“Some familiar faces, for Teen Wolf fans,” Trotter says, and Dylan tries not to look too obviously relieved.

“Yeah, yeah yeah,” he says, nodding. “Tyler, he's incredible. I mean, I don't know if you saw—” But Dylan's put his foot in it again, bringing up Terminal, and all the questions that come with it. “That Terminal audition,” he decides. “How amazing he was. He's like, the dream guy to write for. And with.”

“What was that like?” Trotter asks. “As writing partners. Was that fifty-fifty? Or was it your vision, with contributions.”

“Oh man,” Dylan says, kind of grabbing the back of his neck for leverage before he even really realizes it. “Uh. A little of everything? Like, I had this basic idea, but Tyler, he really fleshed it out, in ways I could've never... You know, turned it around and saw it in this whole other, deeper way. And we both kept coming back with stuff, until it was just, it's own thing. Not him, not me, just... And that's, that's the weirdest feeling. But also the best, oh my god.”

“So it’s like your baby,” Trotter says.

“Ha, yeah,” Dylan says, before his brain takes that a whole other way, and boggles a little bit. “Uh, wow. Yeah, yeah.”

“Subtle transition,” Trotter says. “Now Tyler, he's not just your writing partner.”

“Nope,” Dylan agrees. “Also, also my... partner, partner.” And why, why does Dylan ever try to speak, seriously. _Partner partner._ Is he twelve? Because he's gonna sound twelve, in this. In this _New York Times profile piece._

And since when does the New York Times even profile random actors, or directors? That doesn't even feel like a real thing. This whole thing has to be some kind of setup.

But then: “Did you always know?” Trotter asks, and everything gets too clear, all at once.

Because Dylan's not some random actor, or director. No, no.

He's some random _gay_ actor, or director, or who gives a fuck, and who he's fucking is the only thing that matters about him.

 

“Fine,” he tells Tyler at home, “it was fine, it was...” But he gives up the act too easy, at the expectant look on Tyler's face. They're past lying about this kind of bullshit.

“It was,” he says, and sinks to slouching on the couch. Grabs at Tyler's hands on the way, pulls him down with him. “You know, basic smash-grab garbage. Portrait of a gay dude, so fun. So original.”

“That bad?” Tyler says, rearranging Dylan's limbs over his more comfortably.

“Probably not,” Dylan says. “My head, right? Probably blowing it all out of proportion.”

“Come on,” Tyler says, and then he doesn't say anything, for a while. Just kneads at Dylan's shoulder, his side, this inscrutable expression on his face.

 

Tyler's not a big sharer.

Is it weird, that Dylan's just noticing this now that they live together? It feels weird. They lived together before, they were together before, all the time. So how did Dylan miss it?

Tyler's not a big sharer, with anything real. Anything in Dylan's head, or life, or deepest, darkest fears, Tyler's the first guy ready to dive in. But his own stuff, his own inner monologues, or anything he'd be urging Dylan to talk about if it was his, he'd never volunteer any of it, unless he was trying to relate. Or fighting every instinct, because Dylan's insecure and needy, and Tyler's too relenting, about everything.

He had this nightmare, got really shook up, and he wouldn't've said a word about it. Dylan felt Ty's tears on his palm and the guy still acted like it was nothing, like Dylan shouldn't even be bothered.

And it's just—Has he always been like this?

Dylan can't remember.

Sure, Posey was a buffer, before. Now that Dylan's thinking about it, Posey was this massive, massive blind spot when it came to taking Tyler seriously, as anything. And part of it was Dylan's own nerves, his obsessive need to play down anything that might be important to him, to anyone who might think it's dumb. Like, that guy, seriously? Come on. Like forget he's a guy, forget he's, what he _looks_ like. Or who he's worked with, or knows, or his whole, the whole package. Just—you can't have sentiments like that, for a coworker. That's just... you gotta reign yourself in. But especially in this job, with what comes with it, the scrutiny, and the notoriety, and the pre-teen viewership. And even beyond all that, just back at home base, you don't need that. Being some obvious, obvious clinger like that, just like, swooning at the first pleasant interaction. Or taking something nice, making it weird.

But then with Posey, he just took Dylan's awkward nervous jokes about it and ran with it. Like, Tyler's out somewhere, what's he doing? Just, roiding out, and like, sweeping entire bars of women into his hotel room. Not even as a sexual thing, just like, to work on his stamina. Chugging the whole top shelf and never going limp-dicked, and then the one who survives is his girlfriend, except none of them ever do. Just a million new cases of instant, friction-based spontaneous combustion. Or like, sexiness based. And that's what really started the Hale fire.

And it was the fucking dumbest, jokiest thing. Even then, Dylan knew Ty wasn't like that. He drank wine, okay, not like, shots, and was all about this incredibly active healthy lifestyle. And binging on pizza and video games, and talking smack like Dylan's gonna be intimidated by a guy who chooses Mario every time, doesn't even think about it. And recording like a million separate videos of Dylan getting scared shitless on his phone, never getting tired of it, until he caught Dylan freaking out, like, really freaking out, and got, like, the most sober Dylan'd ever seen him out of character, and sorry. And just stayed with him, kind of patting at his arm, not trying to say anything. Just deleting them, one by one, until Dylan was like, no, it's funny, it's just... You know, you know that feeling? Like, that trapped feeling. Like one of those old Windows screen-savers, that one with the never-ending maze, just turning corners. And it's just, dizzying. You can feel it, you know, the walls closing in.

Until it turned out Tyler didn't know, and Dylan was just this weird, neurotic guy who just assumed those anxieties were as universal as the feeling of fingernails on a chalkboard.

But he tried, though. Tried to get it. Wasn't a dick about it, when he could've been.

Just, Dylan said, press, and cameras, and fans. And being expected to be... on, all the time. Entertaining all the time, this really personable, fun, funny guy all the time. Just, _Stiles,_ all the time. Or else it's disappointing, you know? Came all this way to see him, and Dylan's just—a guy. Just talking, whatever comes to mind, and it's not—There's no punchline, most of the time, no like, shareable moment. People crying just seeing your face up close, Stiles' face. And then you open your mouth and it's just, the biggest letdown.

“That's not,” Tyler said, shaking his head. “I'm never not entertained, talking to you.”

“Well this is, I bet,” Dylan said, feeling sickeningly vulnerable, overexposed. Already getting jokey again, trying to put his Stiles face on. “Best scare yet. Too bad you didn’t get all of this on your phone, that'd be...”

“I wouldn't do that,” Tyler said. “Do I really—You really think I’m like that?”

“No,” Dylan admitted. “I mean, probably.”

“I wouldn't,” Tyler swore. Looking a little sick, then upset. “And anyone who would's an asshole.”

He was angry, almost.

And after that, he kept finding Dylan, by interviews. Or all press things, all those nightmare events with a million cameras, and everyone trying to get a quote, or ask the same four questions.

Kept just sneaking up next to him, behind him, at his side. And just hanging out, distracting him. But the best kind of distraction.

And then Dylan was returning the favor, without even thinking about it. Or at a party, just instinctively looking for him. And feeling so, so relieved just to see him through a crowd. Just to have a destination, you know, some place he could breathe. And Tyler'd wind his arm around him, without even looking, like he could _feel_ Dylan's nervous energy. And just, take it.

And then there was Sterek, not the romance but the relationship, Stiles and Derek. In season two, all these scenes, suddenly. And Tyler got really excited about it, and had all these ideas about it, different takes, and beyond that. And it was so much better, collaborating, than just pitching every second thought, and then everyone expects it, all the time. Was like—all the best parts of it, but more.

And Dylan didn't even see it as a thing, like a romantic thing, at all. Just good, just something that just felt good, that he wanted to keep doing. Like, there was that side to it, obviously, on his end, but it wasn't—Dylan was good at ignoring it, mostly.

And then, and then it was a thing. With a name, and people—shipping it, or whatever. And Dylan kind of freaked out without freaking out, thinking, is it that obvious? And Tyler thought it was hilarious, and went all in. With the 50/50 comment, with everything.

Then Posey got wind of it, and he and Colton went deep, came back with the most explicit, the most terrifying shit. Like, amazing, the level of talent to it, and effort, but just—Dylan really, really wasn't ready for it. Like, confronting that side of himself, or that version.

So, fine, it was a joke, so he let it be a joke, hilarious. And Tyler was the first one to start laughing, wasn't he? So fine, fantastic. Dylan's cracking up, he's so confused, and mindblown, that people could think that. That anyone could ever even come away with that impression.

But Tyler kept being there, and being brilliant, taking every inch Jeff gave him and turning it into a real, true moment, figuring in all these experiences, and this historical background, and how he was raised and what happened to his dad and with Kate and all of it impacting him in these different ways, shaping his instincts, and thought patterns, and reactions. Little details, this one torn sleeve on a leather jacket Derek wore in one scene, and it probably just snagged on something and wardrobe didn't even realize it, but Tyler had a whole other explanation. Like Dylan's just like, how would Stiles feel, or see or react to this, while Tyler's building this whole world around him.

All that, and then Jeff just ignored all his ideas, and cherry-picked his most wooden takes, and redirected and redirected to keep getting them.

And forget everything, all the different perceptions off set, okay; that just pissed Dylan off. So what if it's not your vision, who cares? Tyler's was better. So why couldn't anyone else see that?

So Dylan said, Why don't we just try it? Just these little, little things, just acknowledging.

You know, for the fans.

And they had it, they had scenes: Stiles finding Derek in the elevator, and snapping at him about Jennifer and Derek lets him, and Derek's soft with him. And little touches, just comforting. After Cora, after Boyd.

And then Tyler had bigger ideas, not just looks or intonation, or motive, but actual scenes. Actual whole interactions, what if we... What if Stiles...

And after that, Jeff just—shut it down.

And Tyler, he just retreated. Just nodded, yeah, sure. Every new script with nothing, without any of his suggestions taken into account, he was just over it.

But Dylan wasn't. He couldn't be. All that time, all that genius, and then all Tyler gets is some dream sequence. Dylan gets this whole massive dark arc, and Tyler just gets, gets left behind.

So Dylan couldn't help it, he couldn't stop venting. To Posey, mostly, who finally burst out, “Why do you care? So much,” he added, and Dylan couldn't even start to explain it.

“So tell him,” Posey said, when Dylan tried. And: “Fuck! I’m so _bored_. Of all this bullshit.”

Dylan kind of looked at him, trying to, to read what was underneath. Gut kind of twisting, world kind of spinning too fast. And Posey was like, “What?” Almost weirdly defensively. “I just—Dude. I don't _care_.”

And, almost an afterthought, “You two can circle-jerk without me.”

“Not much of a circle, then,” Dylan joked, but Posey didn’t answer, or respond at all, so he just dropped it. Just grabbed at his beer, and kept drinking, just to be doing something with his hands.

Til there was nothing left, just stifling silence, and Posey said, “You want him, right? So just fucking go already. Or you can sit here masturbating his shadow, I don't know. And then I’m here cleaning cum off the walls, like ectoplasm.”

And Dylan figured out up, and basic movements, like the first go at new character controls, and ended up back in his trailer, head too quiet, body too calm.

And buckled, dry-gagging his heart out.

 

“What if it wasn't,” Dylan says. “Getting fired, or the break up. And my time line’s just way, way off.”

It's always weird, these sessions. Just, talking away, forever. The whole hour, just monologuing. But forgetting that's how it is, and stopping, constantly, trying to gauge a response.

Dr. Martin just waits.

“You know, what if I...” Dylan tries, and gives up. On whatever kind of introduction he's trying to do. Narration, he hates movies with pointless narration. Trying to tie everything together, all matchy-matchy. The clumsiest, cheesiest reincorporation ever: Just echoing that line back, verbatim, with maybe the slightest addition, or altered emphasis. When really the whole thing would've been a lot slicker without any of it. Or, really? The whole time, you're gonna be reading letters? Or recapping the movie instead of showing it, great. Shut up.

“Dylan,” Dr. Martin says, reminding. “Are you here?”

 _Are you here._ How is—and he's trying, okay, he's trying not to just dismiss all of this, laugh it off instinctively, but—How's he supposed to take that seriously? Sitting in this little room, white noise going so he can just start violently sobbing if he wants to, or have a tantrum, or whatever freakish shit he's supposed to be doing, here. Anything goes, really, as long as it's _here_ , in the moment. But getting caught on a tangent, trying to find the words for something he's never tried to put words to outside his own mind, just percolating—no. No, that's where we draw the line.

“I'm just,” he tries again. “What if I, what if it all turned to shit months before I thought? And I just missed it.”

It took so long to even register, but now... Dylan feels like an idiot.

Like the worst, the worst friend in the world.

Because Tyler isn’t a big sharer. He isn't, he never was.

But Posey used to be.

 

Dylan's first thought is to text him, but that's always his first thought. With everything, it's the easiest way.

But that's—No, that's the point. That's the problem. Here's Dylan bumbling along, thinking everything’s resolved, when he's still avoiding any actual, face-to-face interaction.

So, set visit. Potential level of awkwardness? Astronomical. For so, so many reasons. But too bad. Too bad, this is happening.

Except he finds Holland, first, and she says, “You don't know?”

And the whole floor under Dylan just evaporates, just falls away.

 

“What'd I do,” he says, when Posey finally opens the door. “I messed up, I know, I just... I thought we were better. Stupid,” he adds, fighting not to claw at his face, his already stinging eyes.

“What are you talking about,” Posey says.

“We don't talk,” Dylan says. “Anymore. Not really.”

Posey looks at him. Pulls out his phone.

“You sent me forty texts about [that OTP song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VjYUnvnTog).”

“No, I don't...” Dylan tries, tries again. “Yeah, we do. About random nothing, sure.”

Posey's still scrolling, barely listening.

“Hey, c'mon,” Dylan says. His gut's kind of grinding itself into a paste. “Can I—Please.”

There's something off in his voice, something rattling loose. Posey looks up.

“What is it,” he says. “Hoechlin, did he do something? Or—”

“What?” Dylan says, lost for a second. “No, this isn't—it's nothing to do with him. It's—You and me, I thought—I’m an idiot.”

“You're not,” Posey says, a little monotone.

“Yeah, no, of course not,” Dylan says. “So you just decided not to tell me about the biggest, craziest thing going on with you, but we're cool. We're texting about inane viral bullshit, that's what really matters, right?”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Posey asks.

“You got,” Dylan says, and stops. “They let you go,” he says. “MTV. After all that time, for nothing.”

“It doesn't matter,” Posey says. “I hated it for years. I was just too chickenshit to quit. I wanna... I wanna actually do something _real._ Produce, or... Not just be some fucking hand puppet.”

“I would've,” Dylan says. “I would've put you in the movie longer, if I thought you were free. Like, as co-writer.”

“Don't, like,” Posey says. Scoffs. “Hoechlin's the _genius_ , right? My ideas suck.”

“What? No they don't,” Dylan says.

“Yeah, okay,” Posey says, too flat.

“They don't,” Dylan says. Feeling dizzy, seasick. “I didn't mean—Praising Hoechlin all the time, that wasn't, a... a _comparison_.”

Dylan's such a fucking jackass, he can't believe himself.

“I'm just obsessed with him,” Dylan says. “You know how it is. You get, like, tunnel vision.”

“Yeah, I know,” Posey says. “Except, no I don't. I kind of, don't care about anything? At all. For ages. Or,” he adds, “I think I do. And then it's gone, and whatever. World keeps on spinning.”

“I brought Stella,” Dylan says, and holds it up. “We can just...”

“Yeah, okay,” Posey says, and lets him in.

 

“Couldn't get a fucking tattoo without him signing off on it,” Posey says. Draining his first, reaching for another. “You know Arden's gone? For getting Shadowhunters. Wasn't a scheduling conflict, wasn't fucking—anything. He's just that much of a control freak.”

“Shit,” Dylan says feelingly.

“And she was like, the last person on set I could actually...” Posey shakes his head. “It's all bullshit.”

“Yeah it is,” Dylan says, tipping his beer at him in agreement. So he's not supposed to drink on meds, so what? He _missed_ this.

“No,” Posey says. “Not just that, not just... Jeff. Everything.”

“Teen Wolf,” Dylan says.

“Teen Wolf, acting,” Posey says. “Fucking—being a person. Waiting for everything to fall to shit. Not even getting, like, surprised about it. Anymore.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Dylan says. Everything's kind of starting to rattle at the edges, his heart's going too fast.

“What the fuck _didn't_ ,” Posey says, and laughs, and falls over laughing.

 

“I know, I know I fucked up,” Dylan says. Unwrapping from around Posey's collar, his side. “We went out, we didn’t...” Shaking his head to clear it, and just making everything so much worse. “Me and Tyler,” he says. “I forgot, man, I’m sorry.”

On the phone, Tyler isn't even more than annoyed, he's over it. In a second, he's already recalibrating. Moving on. Dylan _knows_ how fucking fake that is. And he's letting it happen, because it's easier. Because he's got a dry mouth and a tender skull and because half of the world's two most important people are going through something he didn’t have the balls yesterday to even vaguely detect. Until it was just—obvious.

“I really am sorry,” he says, softer. “I'll—I'll talk to them, okay? Try to smooth things over. Or cover the deposit, at least.” And there he goes again, just treading on exposed nerves, never even thinking about it until after the fact. “No, no no no,” he interjects. “Because—because I’m an idiot. Yeah I am,” he says. “I’m just, I just blanked on it. And you were waiting, and that's a shitty feeling.” Scrubbing at his eyes, his jaw, trying to sit up without upsetting some core intestinal mechanism. “I don't like being shitty to you.”

Posey groans, twitches vaguely.

Dylan pats at his shoulder.

“I’m gonna make it up to you,” he tells Tyler. “I’m... I will, I swear. This isn't gonna be a thing, with us.”

Famous last words, right?

 

“I’m a shithead,” Dylan tells Tyler on Posey's porch, hugging him. He's a little tense, but he settles in Dylan's arms, urges him closer.

“I had, like, two beers. Not even,” Dylan corrects. “I just forgot how quick it hits, now.”

“You sure it's safe? Mixing,” Tyler says. His voice is warm, not an inch of judgment. Just concern.

Dylan is the suckiest, suckiest boyfriend. _Fiance_ , fuck.

Or fiancee? Who even knows.

“Love you,” he tells Tyler's shoulder. “Hate disappointing you.”

“You didn't...” Tyler starts, but he did, he obviously did. Just thinking about it, about Tyler just waiting there for him, it's the saddest thing in the world. “Hey. Hey, it's okay.”

“It's not,” Dylan says, fighting not to cry. “It's not, you're important. You're important to me.”

“I know,” Tyler says soothingly. “I know, D, it's okay.”

“Shouldn't be,” Dylan says.

 

“They let him go,” he tells Tyler, in the car. Handing back his water bottle, trying not to cry again. At how good he is, Ty. At everything. “MTV,” he says, when the lump in his throat recedes. “Or Jeff, I don't know. Half a dozen of one, six of the other.”

“Permanently?” Tyler says. His hand on Dylan's back, just rubbing the beds of his fingers up and down, his thumb massaging in small circles. “I thought it was just a, a break. That's how they're spinning it.”

Of course, of course Tyler already knows.

“He didn't mention an end date,” Dylan says.

“Wow,” Tyler says.

“How can they just do that?” Dylan demands. “Just cut him off, like it's nothing. From his own show.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Tyler says.

It takes Dylan a minute.

“That's not the same,” he says, finally. “I was an oversensitive, condescending prick, people hated me.”

“Nobody hated you,” Tyler says. “Everyone has a bad day, once in a while. It shouldn't have been that easy.”

“Yeah, well he didn't do _anything_ ,” Dylan says. “Or, or Arden? She just booked something else. Pricked his paper-thin ego, that was it.”

“Arden's gone?” Tyler says. He shakes his head. “I’m glad I got out when I did.”

“Yeah, that wasn't right either,” Dylan says. “So you had an alternate thought, so what? We're not just bobble-heads.”

Tyler laughs.

“Honestly?” he says, after some consideration. “Maybe he was jealous.”

“Of your ideas,” Dylan says, nodding. “That's actually not that...”

“Of this,” Tyler says, and kisses him.

 

“So, um,” Dylan says, between interviews. “I wanna prove it to you. Prove I’m taking this seriously.”

“You don't have to prove anything,” Tyler says.

“I want to,” Dylan says. “I wanna, I wanna do something for us. Something real.”

“Figure out the guest list?” Tyler suggests. “It's breaking my brain, just a little bit.”

“Absolutely,” Dylan says, nodding. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah. How far in did you get?”

“Drafts? Four,” Tyler says. “Teen?” he adds, laughing. “I think I just got in my head about it.”

“Fourteen, wow,” Dylan says. “What's the big...”

“So management, fine,” Tyler says. “And family, and friends. And before you know it, we don't fit in the venue. And I know you don't want,” he adds. “You don't like big parties. So I keep trying to like, narrow it down. And it just kind of mutates, all on its own.”

“Evolves, like a Pokemon,” Dylan says. Lays his hand on the back of Tyler's neck, scritches at his hair. “Yeah, I can do that. You got it.”

“I love you,” Tyler mumbles, kind of squirming into the touch.

“That's all it takes? Okay,” Dylan says. “Erogenous zone, got it. Noted.”

Lifting his hand, dragging his mouth just lightly there.

“Like you didn’t know that,” Tyler breathes, on a completely different planet.

Dylan laughs.

 

It's the worst feeling, coming out of these perfect moments. Remembering the look on Posey's face, the way he said, _being a person_.  Like he gets it, understands it too exactly, what the come down of this high feels like.

Maybe without ever feeling the high at all.

Dylan's buried under thirty-four pages of Tyler's diligent notes, just trying not to lose it for the third time in a day. All this dedicated, detailed planning, and Dylan's just tripping through everything, barely even looking down at who he's stepping on. Tyler's not even taking this opportunity to relax, take a breath; no, he's cooking. He's been watching all these YouTube tutorials, getting more and more impressive all the time. And it's not like Dylan can't make a connection, the studiousness there, and how he's constantly looking to Dylan, after, at his plate, keeping an eye out.

Making sure he's eating.

And just, and just. How can Dylan even start to compare to that? Even come close to that level, that much effort, just to... Just to play it down, act like that little bit of praise at the end of it is more than he could ever ask for.

There's this pressure on Dylan's chest. This tightness, this mounting, mounting dread that he's gonna let Tyler down. He's gonna relapse, have a bad patch again, and Tyler's gonna pull himself apart trying to do everything, fix everything, when he can't. When he inherently, inherently can't.

This list, all fourteen near-identical versions of it, he's already doing it. Shedding everything, everything that's anything to him, trying to make Dylan happy.

Every list, every one, his friends are the one crossed out. Brittany, Colton, Camille, gone. And Ian, his closest fucking friend, Ian—his _Posey_ —isn't even on the list to begin with.

Because _You don't like big parties_ , he didn't even ask. Didn't even reconsider once.

And what, what, what the fuck is Dylan doing? Cutting into him, getting between his—everything. His whole life, he's throwing away his whole life for this.

Isn't that what an abusive relationship is? Or, or a cult, something. Something dangerous, something inescapable.

And Dylan's just supposed to let him do that?

 

“Do you not actually have friends?” Dylan asks, and immediately feels like a tool. Tyler made chicken tacos, the soft kind, no boxed shells, no Hamburger Helper cheats. Chicken tacos, and this salad with fucking—mandarin oranges in it, and Dylan opens his mouth and it's to ask Tyler if he has _friends_.

He feels like a tool, but he can't stop thinking about it. When has Tyler actually flaked on him, for anything? Had a night out, did something for himself, with someone else. “I mean, besides me,” he adds, later than a missed period. At least he's not counting himself out of the line-up too, god.

“I have friends,” Tyler says, and doesn't elaborate.

“But not Ian,” Dylan says. He should drop this, really, but he can't. “And not, not Camille, or Brittany. What about Colton, you like Colton, or—or Linden—”

“What are you saying?” Tyler says.

“You're like the friendliest guy!” Dylan says, a little desperately. “Like, the nicest, charmingest—most charming guy,” he corrects.

“You're not that bad yourself,” Tyler offers. “Outside this conversation.”

“No, no,” Dylan says. “You... Back when we lived together, with Posey, we had people over all the time.”

“Yes,” Tyler says patiently.

“And like, you love parties,” Dylan goes on. “And just—being a team player, being...”

Tyler's looking at Dylan like he's crazy. He feels, he _feels_ crazy.

“Is my memory just broken?” Dylan asks. “Have I just mixed you up, like, swapped you for some completely other guy in terms of social life?”

“I like being social,” Tyler agrees, bemused. “So what?”

“So... but you're not,” Dylan says. “I don't like doing anything, or, or interacting outside of work, or you or Posey. It makes _sense_ that I'm this, this homebody.”

“Is that what I am?” Tyler asks, smiling a little too pleasantly.

“I don't know,” Dylan says, kind of—rocked to his core. “I don't...”

But he can't explain it.

 

“Is anyone actually okay?” Dylan asks. “Like, in the world. Is being happy even really a thing? On any kind of regular, dependable basis, I mean. Or is everyone just faking it, for everyone else.”

“What do you think?” Dr. Martin asks.

“I don't know,” Dylan says. “Like, I'm depressed, right? Supposedly. Supposedly there's some baseline of contentment I'm not hitting, that everyone else is.”

“That's one way to put it,” Dr. Martin says.

“But like, who actually is everybody?” Dylan says. “What does it even look like? Are they just fucking giddy all the time? You can't function.”

“And you can,” Dr. Martin says.

“I don’t know,” Dylan says. “Sometimes, most of the time. By what standard? Maybe I have to be, like, going out, all the time, eagerly hoping to run into cameras, or fans, or whoever the fuck. While getting groceries, or meds. Or literally mid-piss, how about that? Just, no shred of privacy. And that's it, that's what I'm supposed to want.”

“There's nothing wrong with having boundaries,” Dr. Martin says.

“Yeah, tell that to the girls threatening to kill themselves if I don't answer them on Twitter.” Dylan scrubs at his face. “The way I see it? The whole world's a joke. Not even a good one.”

“Dylan,” Dr. Martin says. “Are you a danger to yourself?”

“What? No,” Dylan says. Looking at her, down at his hands. “Not—not any more than usual, anyway. That's not...” He waves a hand irritably. Staying in the moment, what happened to that? “Are you happy?”

“This isn't about me,” Dr. Martin says.

“See?” Dylan says, pointing. “And you're the expert, on all of this.”

“Dylan,” Dr. Martin says. “I'm not depressed. What you're feeling isn't rational, or permanent. Try to remember that.”

“Yeah, I'll make a note of it,” Dylan says.

And realizes something.

“You didn't say you were happy,” he points out.

“Happiness is a state,” Dr. Martin. “It comes, and it goes. Just like fear, or sadness, or what I'm feeling, right now. But depression takes all that, and distorts it. Makes the good seem too fleeting, and the bad... endless. Insurmountable. It's not true,” she says. “I know it can feel... obvious, and unshakable, but that's not reality. And that's what we're fighting.”

 

“What's your head like?” Dylan asks. Quiet enough not to startle him, if he's anywhere close to sleep.

Tyler blinks at him blearily. He's taken his glasses off, it's weird. Dylan's getting so used to them. “What? It's fine.”

“No, I mean,” Dylan says, and tries to put it into words. “Like, what's your baseline. Mood-wise.”

“I,” Tyler says, and his brows furrow. “I’m pretty tired,” he says finally. “Does that count?” Then he's frowning, trying not to. “What's yours?”

“I don't know,” Dylan says. “Who says I'm even depressed?” he asks. “This feels—normal.”

“Yeah?” Tyler says. Reaching out, drawing Dylan closer. “That's good, right? Means something's working.”

“Could be,” Dylan says, his fingers awkward and needy again. They find Tyler's shoulder, slowly settle. “Yeah,” he says, giving up trying to figure it out. Just mapping Tyler's skin under his, just breathing. “Yeah, yeah yeah. I bet you're right.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oh you, careless eyes_   
>  _oh you, happy bones_   
>  _oh you, milk soft hands_   
>  _oh, you, neatly combed_   
>  _i'm never right_   
>  _i'm never right_   
>  _i'm never right_   
>  _i'm never right, i hope_   
>  _i'm never right, i hope_   
>  _(i felt my heart sink, i think you fell head over heels only to be let down)_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  [i'm never right - astronautalis ft isaiah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UEAtuM9tV9g)
> 
>  
> 
>  


	24. really, really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what to do man when it comes to longass memories. i hate when like half a chapter is in italics so i guess i'm just trusting that you're smart? but also feel free to ask if it turns out you cant read my mind 
> 
> alternatively, [bloopety bloopety bloop *screen ripples*]

It doesn't mean anything, it doesn't. That Dylan's fifteen minutes late to another wedding thing, looking cornered as soon as he finally gives up trying to apologize for it, settles into a chair.

It's—It's cake tasting. It's food, it's a sensitive subject. That's all it is.

Except Tyler can't help thinking about that line, that Stiles line, if one is an instance and two is a coincidence...

It's stupid. It's stupid to take this much direction from a TV show. A TV show where Tyler's primary role was standing twenty feet from the camera, glaring, and wearing tight jeans and not much else. Maybe writhing a little, for variety. Every once in a while, just when the role would start to feel like some really convoluted practical joke, Jeff would change it up, just a little bit. And Dylan pushed for it, got Tyler more than he ever could've...

But it wasn't enough. Nothing ever is. Tyler had to keep pushing, keep prodding, until Jeff started rolling his eyes and turning away just on seeing Tyler approaching.

That's not gonna happen here.

Cake tasting, it's _cake_. To Tyler, it's the easiest thing in the world. But Dylan's a different person, with different needs. So why is it so hard for Tyler to just accept that? Just let him breathe. Who even needs a cake, God. Or needs him at this consultation, when he'll eat it or he wont eat it, all the same, regardless.

It's just that Tyler had this idea. Before. How this would go, how all wedding planning would go. That it would be—stressful, yeah, but fun, too. Same as co-writing their movie, just collaborating together. Just goofing off, having a good time, and then enjoying the result.

But that's not—It doesn't matter. What the picture in his head looked like, that's some fantasy. Some stupid, childish...

The reality is Dylan hates this, all of it. Party planning, the million inane details, doing anything private in public. Being the focus of a crowd, having eyes on him.

So what the hell is the point of putting him through this, exactly?

 _I don't need_ , Tyler thinks, thinks of saying. The fourteenth minute watching the door, trying takes in his head. _We don't have to do a real_... No, no. _It doesn't have to be some big production. It's just us._

Just us, just some religious formality. All the rest of this is just... scene dressing.

_It doesn't matter. I don't care._

Except he does. Idiotically, childishly, Tyler does. He wants—not some detail-perfect dream wedding, he can recognize a naïve fantasy and dismiss it, but... something. Something he can remember, the next time Dylan's falling all over himself trying to apologize, and it's temporarily not enough.

The truth is, the truth is Tyler's a romantic. Always has been, always... And giving things up can be romantic, so maybe he just needs to recenter, appreciate what he actually has. But part of him, a real, true part of him wants to just celebrate. Celebrate them, where they are. After everything that's happened, he just really, really wants to put his arm around Dylan and walk past a crowd of heretics who thought they knew better, and not even look in their direction. That super saccharine image, the Just Married balloons and streamers flying from the back of the car, the closing credits. The whole thing.

But Dylan would hate that, every detail. So Tyler strikes the doubters off the list, again, again. And Ian never makes it on at all.

That never takes a second's hesitation.

 

“The scene,” Tyler said, and blanked, ruined any chance at anything. Too conscious of the time slipping by already. Nothing in his head, no commentary to add; he just stood there, just proving...

Not like he needed to be on Dylan's level, not like he actually thought he could, but he knew as soon as it was over, as soon as he couldn't fit it to a conversation anymore, it'd come, and keep coming. Everything he could've said, instead of, “Seems pretty straightforward.”

Just driving, clearing his head days later, he can't stop thinking about it. That scene, and the million ways he could've taken it apart, put it back together better.

Like, Derek trusts Stiles now, when did that happen? Unquestioningly trusts his opinions, and decisions, goes along with his ideas. And maybe that's a post-Nogitsune thing, going easier on him, maybe—maybe everyone around him is walking on eggshells, and more than anything he wants those little fights with Derek back, that bickering, that little bit of resistance, or friction. It’s just that the awkward place they're in won't allow it: there's Malia, there's this sudden, unbreachable distance between them. And they both think that's how the other wants it, so they never even try to get back to where they were. Just playing fine, and they're not, but they're resigned to it. To feeling miserable until they don’t, until time fades it, or Malia, Braeden, anyone, anything else.

When they could just _talk_ to each other. When either one of them could just admit what they're feeling, and they wouldn't have to play this stupid game anymore.

And what's—what's the worst thing that could happen, then? They're already barely civil, barely acquaintances. Practically strangers. What could be worse than that?

And that's... Tyler's not stupid, he knows what he's doing. Going down two lanes at once, finding the moral in everything. Some kind of takeaway, some lesson.

There's a convention, a Teen Wolf convention, Dylan's last. Tyler can't imagine the way Dylan sees them. Can't wrap his head around seeing them as anything but the easiest thing in the world, just talking. Just hanging out, goofing around. And occasionally you're funny, or charming, but even when you're not, you're just a blank canvas. Just something for people to project onto, this character that matters, really matters to people, no matter how meaningless it feels when you watch it back scene by scene, and just think of everything you wish you could've added. But it's not about you, it's about this world, this world that's bigger than Tyler or Dylan or even Jeff or the original movie. It's the world where that's just the tip of the iceberg. Where any offhand thought about Derek, or Stiles, hunters or werewolves or anything, is just as legitimate as anything actually on the show. Where your ideas don't have to be Jeff-approved to matter.

But Dylan doesn't see it like that. The fans'll love him no matter what, but for him, it's just pressure, and expectations. He'll say one dumb thing and get in his head about it, convince himself he'll never live it down. Even if Tyler's said four dumb things in less time, and face-palmed and forgot about it, Dylan's different. He can't get out of the spiral himself, he needs a distraction.

And Tyler, he used to be that. He's glad to be that for him. That's why Dylan committed to a joint panel, him and Tyler, back when things were solid between them. Back when he actually relaxed around Tyler, said, “I'd do—I'd do any interview with him, he's the best at them.”

There's one more convention with Dylan, and this time Tyler's not gonna get distracted by—weigh ins, or fat to muscle ratios. Dylan doesn't care about that. He'll just talk to him, through the panel, and after, they'll just talk. And Tyler wont hold back, wont play it cool—that's what nearly killed them last time. His whole approach made no sense. I miss you, so let me show you how awkward and stilted our interactions could be, and never dare touch you, and leave without even trying to explain. And somehow it didn't end in some amazing showing of love on Dylan's part, some big romantic finale. Who would've guessed. That just standing there like an idiot, trying to look attractive, wouldn't have Dylan falling into his arms.

It's scary, it really is, how that could've been the end. Could've been their last scene, on camera or off, and Tyler wasted it with some typical Hollywood mentality strategy, that the way to win back your ex is with a movie-star makeover. Scary that Tyler fell for that, that he forgot how Dylan's nothing like that. Looks, yeah, great, but what separates you from a Kardashian? Plastic and fake and shallow, and not worth starting a conversation with. And Tyler could've fit right in with it, tailoring himself to this pervasive, perfection-obsessed culture. It's, it's eye-opening. How you don't even realize you're buying into it, even as you mock it in your head.

Dylan, he's more than that. He's always been more than that, he's never changed. Kept his head, kept his sense of humor about it, the ridiculous standards and expectations here. It's the reason, one of the million reasons Tyler fell for him in the first place.

So how could he just forget that? Just lose sight, of everything. Everything that's important.

Tyler can't make sense of it.

 

“She's a former Victoria's Secret model,” Ian says, with such gravitas Tyler face-palms for a flat minute. “Dropped out, couldn't take the pressure. You know what that means?”

“I'm not...” Tyler tries, shaking his head. “I’m not seeing anyone, I told you.”

“Who said anything about _seeing_?” Ian says. “There's no commitment here. Just a gorgeous woman with low self-esteem and something to prove.”

“I have plans,” Tyler says. Kind of grimacing just contemplating it, what Ian’s suggesting. “And that's... I don't wanna be that person.”

“A hot blooded, American male?” Ian says.

“A creep,” Tyler says. “Who, who takes advantage—”

“Where exactly is this holier-than-thou attitude supposed to get you?” Ian says. “A near year without touching another human being, that's healthy. I'm sure Dylan's sworn off sex too. Unless... Could it be? He's a popular millennial who hasn't dedicated the rest of his life to staying in and moping.”

“Shut up,” Tyler says, trying not to think about it. Even if it's true, that's not... They're not actually together. It doesn't mean they won't be, if Dylan has some... if there's someone else, in between.

His head is starting to throb.

“All she's asking for is a chance,” Ian says loftily. “You could be the one who finally—”

“Just stop,” Tyler snaps. “Just—I don't want to. So just drop it, okay? Don't be an asshole.”

“Your loss,” Ian says, but he shuts up, after that.

 

There's work, and it's good, a good distraction. And baseball at work, which has to be the best of both worlds. Even with most scenes off the field, in locker rooms and college dorms, it's just nice. Feels familiar; feels more like home than home has for a long time. That perfect combination of competition and support, that's family. Until you turn out to be something they didn't expect, and you lose it all, can't go back.

Ken's a hard worker, throws himself into all of it: the game, school, practice. And something’s gotta give, something always does. Things come to a head, it all falls away.

Now what?

Your whole life resets, the map you worked out as a kid, kept refining and refining, and taking every success as proof, that you're on the right path. That this is it. This is what your life is supposed to be.

And then it isn't, it can't be. There's nowhere to go but back. Back home, back to the drawing board, trying to find some kind of new direction that doesn't feel like failure. You can be a former baseball player, is that what you want? All your life, nothing but looking backwards, and regrets. Missing everything that could ever come afterward, seeing it all through the same narrow lens.

What else is there?

That's Ken's head in this scene, that loss, that emptiness. Where do you go from being so certain, about everything?

It's maybe ten lines total, but that's never mattered. Not really.

If he's real, there's always more. Doesn't matter what breaks through the page, what gets left behind.

Tyler never wants to do anything halfway.

 

 _Shippers of these two aren't gonna like this_ , Tyler reads from the iPad in Ian’s hands. He stops, looks up, eyebrows high. “This crap again?”

“But is it crap?” Ian says. “True or not, someone must be _saying_ it. Aren't you curious who the source is?”

“It's nobody,” Tyler says. “Some blogger without a life of his own. I don't care.”

“It's Tyler Posey,” Ian says.

Tyler rolls his eyes. “No it's not.”

“You didn’t even read it,” Ian says.

“Because I’m smarter than you,” Tyler says, only half joking, but he can't help but glance down for a few seconds, his eyes catching on... something.

_Y: [Twink Wolf] was worried._

_X: About [Teen DILF]?_

_Y: About what [TD] kept doing. Hanging all over him, hamming it up for the cameras. And ... fans. Trying to make himself relevant._

“People understand this?” Tyler says. But he's playing dumb. Of course there are nicknames, and of course they're equally obvious and ridiculous; what do you expect? And of course it's some horrible claim—that Dylan felt trapped, that Tyler's a famewhore. Nothing gets internet traction faster. “I’m not even a,” he starts, shaking his head, but it's not worth it. It's some internet joke. It always is.

Tyler pushes the tablet away.

“A DILF? Of course you are,” Ian says. “You haven't seen the story? Fic, excuse me.”

“Just stop,” Tyler says. “You're enjoying this too much.”

“Your fifteen minutes of shame,” Ian says. “I’m as outraged as you. That's why I want answers.”

“There aren't any,” Tyler says. He doesn't know why he bothers.

It's all so idiotic.

“Tyler Posey,” Ian says. “Can't you just hear him say those words?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Tyler bites out, almost Derek-like. “This isn't funny. It's my life.” He's starting to lose it, just trying to explain. “I don't... You can't live like that. Second guessing people all the time. Trying to figure out what they're thinking. _I don't need to know_.”

“Unless it's the truth,” Ian says. “And you're about to make the biggest mistake of your life. I’m trying to _keep_ you from that _humiliation_.”

Of course, of course. Tyler doesn't know what he was thinking, sharing his plans, his resolutions. That Dylan's the priority, and the goal, and the only thing that matters, really, at all, like Ian’s ever gonna understand, or approve. When Ian wants nothing more or less than Tyler signing up for the Bachelor. Or some other revolving door of meaningless conversations, or something with no need for talking at all.

“I’ve already made my biggest mistake,” Tyler says. Tiredly, he's just tired. “I’m just trying to fix it.”

 

He nods along for Ian’s sake, for his own sake, just to stop the lectures, but when Tyler sees Dylan at Kitsunecon, when Dylan looks at him, it's exactly the same as all those parties and interviews a million years ago. That rushing relief, _thank god_. Thank god, I’m not alone in this.

Tyler stops pretending to be rational or careful, just threads through the spotty crowd to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, and another, just stays. Dylan warm and settling under him exactly like old times, and gravitating closer, and Tyler can't speak. Doesn't trust his own throat, right now.

But then Dylan goes still, backs up, puts his arm up between them, a clear boundary. Looks at Tyler like he's seeing him for the first time, or remembering the last, and they're nothing to each other.

And Tyler... Tyler has to step back, has to rush off, check on his bag. Ian's hand catching his shoulder, he shrugs it off. He needs to find his bag, make sure everything’s there, where he put it, that he didn’t forget.

In his hotel room, he can't stop reading it all off his phone. Everything tagged with those stupid names. All those horrible rumors, that Tyler knows Dylan would never actually, actually...

But does he, really? Does he really know anything?

He loves Dylan, but how would Dylan know that? He's never said it. Just tried to show it, tried to express it in easier ways, touch, and compliments. And got moody when Dylan didn’t wanna be out in public, public in public. Got this idea in his head that that's something you can _deserve_. If you matter enough to a person. When really, really Dylan could've been testing him, what is this? Am I what you really want? Or just the fame by association.

And Tyler chose, and that's it. Game over.

Tyler doesn't know where to begin, how to fix it, now. But he has to, he has to. More than just for himself, his own loneliness, if he hurt Dylan. Made him feel used, made him feel...

And it is happening, he was right. Right to check and double check, because here it comes again, at the worst possible time. Tyler's last chance.

If he wrote it out, if he got it down, maybe it would be easier. Figuring out what he wants to say, and what doesn't matter, and how exactly to express it so it comes out right this time. So Dylan understands. Exactly how incredible he is, and what Tyler thinks of him, how he feels. How he would never, never put his career ahead of what they had. And he's sorry, he's sorry for ever making it seem any other way.

But there isn’t time, it just slips away. There's just notes, pages and pages, none of them right. One last chance to explain, to really give it everything, before he can start to think about what a good life might look like without him. I used to have Dylan, and everything, but now I have... Whatever, whatever's left.

Tyler's trying not to think about it.

And then it's showtime.

 

It's easy, too easy, this time. With an audience full of questions, all the pressure off Tyler to supply the conversation. He's just answering, just genuinely reminiscing, getting lost in it.

But he looks at Dylan, the millionth caught gaze, it keeps happening, and Dylan swallows hard, looks down and away, and he's...

Tyler can't remember what he said, what the question was, his own middle name.

“Dylan,” he says, low. Reaching out, trying to—comfort him, reassure him, get some kind of response. Patting at his shoulder, his neck, keeping his hands there. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Dylan says. His voice flat, shoulders tense. “Don’t even—don’t, don’t let it concern you.”

“What?” Tyler says. Trying to understand, trying to keep nodding, smiling, at all the people on the other side of this. “I don't... _What_?”

“’s cool,” Dylan says, looking just past him. Tears on his lashes. Tyler's head starts to pound. “I don’t need—I mean, it doesn’t matter.” On and on, like he really believes it. The rumors, the lies.

“Dylan,” Tyler says. He doesn't know how, or why, he just knows he's ruining this. With everything he can't say in public, that Dylan won't trust in public. “Let’s, let’s not do this here.”

“Or at all,” Dylan offers. “Whatever. Let’s just spend another nine months wondering what the fuck—” His voice catches, and it's a few seconds before he says, voice tight, “Yeah, let’s not.”

The rest of the panel is torture, Tyler scared to death. Of every stupid word here being their last, of never getting to make it right.

Tyler's glued to his side, he's not budging. After, Dylan darts off somewhere, but Tyler finds him, finds his side, holds his palm up, stop, please. Leans in close, says, “I think we should talk. Privately.”

“Nah, I think we’re done talking,” Dylan says. He won't make eye contact, he won't look up at all. “Why don’t you go talk to some supermodel. If you can stand limiting yourself to just one.”

“You keep saying that,” Tyler says. He can't make sense of it. “Why do you... I don’t know any models.”

“Maybe you should _get_ to know them,” Dylan suggests. “You know, before you sleep with them.”

Tyler stares at him.

“Is that..." That can't be it, it can't be as simple as that. "You think I’m seeing somebody?”

“Just one?” Dylan asks. Scoffing, not quite managing it. Scuffing his sneaker into the carpet. The back of Tyler's neck tingles a little bit. “No, nope. I think you found the buffet. The full smorgasbord.”

“I’m,” Tyler says, staggered. After all this, every semiconscious thing he thought he could've done, it's disconcertingly simple. “I haven’t... There was one date. Ian thought it would be...” He shakes his head. “I was miserable.”

“Yeah, that’s not what Ian says,” Dylan says tightly.

"God." Tyler doesn't even wanna know. How Ian was playing both sides of this, just amusing himself. Never mind the consequences.

“What’d he say to you?” Tyler asks. “I told him I didn’t...” He shakes his head, keeps shaking. “There hasn’t been anybody.”

“Then what,” Dylan says. “I’m just too much of a spaz to, to bother—” His voice cracking, and Tyler's fighting himself, fighting every instinct telling him to touch Dylan, help him feel better. He can't, not until he's sure.

“You’re the one who can’t stand me touching you in public,” Tyler says. It's a question more than anything else. A plea, even. “You’re the one who said it was all just a funny joke. Fanservice.”

“No,” Dylan says, looking up, looking lost. Alarmed, suddenly. “No, that wasn’t—I had to say that crap. Posey doesn’t get it, okay? And I didn’t want things to be weird—”

“Well,” Tyler says, and that's exactly when it kicks in, keeps kicking.

“What,” Dylan says. His eyes fixed on Tyler now, exactly the worst time. “That’s it, that’s why—You could’ve _told_ me.”

“I tried to,” Tyler says, just a little stronger than he means to. This is it, they're solving it, he can't risk this for anything. “You just agreed. So.”

“I didn’t think it mattered what I wanted,” Dylan says. “You made up your mind.”

“No!” Tyler says. Trying, trying, but his head's spinning. His control's slipping away. “I didn’t! I didn’t want to... I just...” He can't think. “It wasn’t a joke to me.”

“That’s not what it was,” Dylan says. Eyes wide, voice soft. “It’s just... some people don’t get it.”

“So explain it,” Tyler says. “Or don’t. Don’t... Just don’t,” he says, pleading. Barely about this, anymore. “It was never a joke to me.”

“So I screwed up,” Dylan says. Voice oddly cold, but there's no mistaking the look on his face. “My bad.”

Tyler can't argue anymore, he can't speak. It's a fight just keeping his eyes open.

Quiet, he says, “I hate fighting with you.” Slings his arm around Dylan’s shoulders, like its nothing, like he doesn't need the support.

Dylan curls close against him. Tyler could cry.

“We’re okay?” Dylan asks, and Tyler nods, but that's a mistake. Any sound, any movement now is.

“More than,” he manages, and presses his forehead to Dylan's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

 

He blames jet lag, blames himself, he's just tired. Just exhausted, just forgot how exhausting these things can be.

And Dylan gets it, more than gets it, lets him sleep. It's an easier one, the pill kicking in early, and Tyler wakes up almost back to normal, Dylan on his side the next bed over, just watching him, a soft look on his face.

Tyler’s feeling a lot better, really. Really, he is.

“It's a big bed,” he offers, gesturing at the length of it. Sitting up, patting the space beside him.

“You're a big guy,” Dylan says.

Tyler raises an eyebrow.

 

There's a panel with Ian the next day. Tyler doesn't have words.

“So that model,” Ian says, after.

“What did you say to him?” Tyler bursts out. “Dylan, you told him... what?” He doesn't think he's ever been so physically angry. In such a visceral, inescapable way. “That I’m happy? He doesn't matter? Or, or that he should move on. Forget about us, there never was one.”

“What are you talking about?” Ian says. Like it's nothing, like he can't even remember the moment he completely fucked with the best part of Tyler's life.

“You told Dylan I was seeing people,” Tyler says. He's lightheaded, he's _shaking_. “I never asked you to do that. I _wasn't_.”

“We never spoke,” Ian says. “Not about you. I spoke to Tyler Posey.”

“Not this again,” Tyler says, disgusted. “I don't care who it was. You playing with his head like that? With my _life_?” He shakes his head. “You're gonna stop,” he says. “Making decisions for me, and him, and playing out these little mind games, thinking you can control the result. You can't.”

It takes a minute just to catch his breath, calm down. Ian just watches him.

“I take it you're back together, then,” he says.

“Yeah, we are,” Tyler says. Defiant: _See? You don't know everything._ You don't know anything about us.

“Funny,” Ian muses. He's infuriatingly unaffected. “You'd think you'd be happier.”

“I _am_ ,” Tyler says, but Ian always gets the last word. In the long term, in Tyler's head, regardless. And it's not worth it. He's not worth another second of Tyler's time. Or thoughts, or anything.

Tyler takes off, leaves him alone.

 

“Do you not actually have friends?” Dylan asks, a year later, and really, Tyler should have known this was coming.

“I have friends,” he says.

“But not Ian,” he says, and Tyler all but nods.

No one needs a friend like that.

 

Tyler has friends, he does. Could have added people to his guest list. Camille, she was there for him, that worst day, all the others. India, too, with the advice. And Brittany. They all had all this advice, about Dylan.

_You can't reward bad behavior. Grow a little backbone._

_Oh, honey, he's not sick. He's throwing a tantrum._

_You really wanna be thirty and still living a lie?_

There's still Colton. But now he and Ian are... something, some kind of package deal. So it's both or none. So it's none.

It shouldn't matter what number it all adds up to. How many spots on a list, that's not what's important. Quality over quantity. Tyler has Dylan, and then there's everyone else. And everyone else is fine, and Tyler's social, he likes being social. But Dylan's the only one he really needs. If Maslow's hierarchy was rewritten with Tyler in mind, it would be Dylan, and then everything else.

It's just that Tyler knows how that sounds. And Dylan, he scares easy.

The last thing Tyler ever wants to do is scare Dylan away.

 

They're fine, they're _fine_. It's just getting harder. Every stumbling-in apology is starting to blur together with the last. And there's a thousand things that need doing, and Dylan swears he's done editing and re-editing the cut they already settled on, the one they went back and watched another two times between near-identical placebos, trying to find the best one blind. He swears he's done, but three in the morning Tyler snaps awake to find Dylan half-curled away, watching discarded takes on his laptop, taking notes on his phone.

“Nightmare?” Dylan asks, somehow alerting to Tyler's eyes on him without taking his off the screen. Turning to Tyler then, palm flattening the laptop lid shut before Tyler shakes his head. “Did I wake you? I'm sorry.”

Apologies. Tyler's sick of apologies. But they come with Dylan's hands on him, his gaze soft, undistracted, and that's all Tyler really needs.

For a while, anyway.

 

Tyler always feels it before it comes.

Feels it, and stops it, and that's the end of it, but this time Tyler fucks up. This time Tyler gets distracted by the million other things he needs to lock down, and ends up staring like an idiot at the empty orange bottle between his fingers, trying to remember what piled on top of him last time that made him put off getting a refill to now, in the car three minutes from the goddamn airport.

“You okay?” Dylan says, craning his neck to see. Tyler doesn't know what he's doing, how it's so obvious to Dylan, the panic he's choking down. The little lies he tells himself, trying to move past caring: Maybe it won't be so bad, this time. He'll drink water, he'll cover his eyes. A coffee for caffeine, Tylenol, sometimes—that used to work, sometimes.

Except planes make it worse, he knows this. Planes make it worse; the thin air, and the noise, turbulence, lack of space. Lack of control, over everything. Just trapped in a shuddering metal box full of obnoxious people, seriously considering just Hulking the door open and taking his chances between the propeller blades and the long drop to oblivion.

Fine, he thinks, doesn't trust himself enough to try to say. He nods vaguely, already almost feeling it, pushes his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose.

“You didn't drink,” Dylan says.

Of course. Of course now has to be exactly when he starts trying to figure it out.

“Just a little nauseous,” Tyler says. Dehydration, his mind supplies, after too long, but there's no place left in the already-moving conversation.

“Oh, man, really?” Dylan says sympathetically. Reaching, scrubbing at Tyler's shoulder. “Is it my driving? I know I suck at turns.”

“It's not your _driving_ ,” Tyler says. But this is how it is, with Dylan, he blames himself. Takes every mildly uncomfortable moment around him and takes responsibility. And tries to save everyone by running, by leaving them alone. Where they'll be safer, presumably, but in reality, it's just miserable, and lonely. On top of whatever else.

It's not like Tyler would've said anything if things were different. If Dylan was different. It wouldn't matter.

He's never told anyone. Why start now?

 

It gets worse before they even leave the runway. Tyler knew it would, sooner or later, but knowing and trying to prepare, and actually getting hit with it, are two very different things.

Dylan's alarmed, of course he is, without Tyler making a sound, just looking stiffly past everything, trying to breathe normally. Those little exercises he used to try, mindfulness, meditation. It's not crap, it can work. It's just next to impossible to actually make it make any kind of meaningful difference.

“Tyler,” Dylan says. His hand high on Tyler's cheek, cool palm pressed against Tyler's forehead. “Ty? Talk to me.”

“I can't,” Tyler manages. There's a certain amount of effort in swallowing back the sound itching to explode every time he opens his mouth. The extra inch of unsteady breath, the near-inevitable trapped whimper. And he can't let it go, start the whole thing that comes with it, when he turns powerless. That's absolutely not on the table.

“If it's that bad,” Dylan says, like he has any idea, and Tyler grits out, “Just leave it alone.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, but he shakes his head. “Yeah, I can't really... I can't just sit here and do _nothing_.”

“So you'll just annoy the vomit out of me,” Tyler says, but the pride of the retort does help, somehow. “Thanks so much.”

“Ty,” Dylan says. And searches Tyler's face for something, and swallows, swallows. “I will get us the fuck off this plane. If it's that—”

“It's not that bad,” Tyler cuts him off. Not even entirely sure why.

“We're not in the air,” Dylan says. “We can—we can go back home. Get a private—”

“Stop,” Tyler says. It's frustratingly tempting, the easy out. “Please, just... I just need _quiet_.”

Dylan quiets.

 

It doesn't get better, and then it really hits, and Tyler doesn't know who he was kidding, before, pretending the training montage was the fight scene. It's worse than Tyler remembers, and he can't... can't exactly stifle it, the sound fighting up his throat. The caught breaths, trying to hold it back.

“Ty,” Dylan says. “Ty, hey, are you—Can you _breathe_?”

But Tyler can't speak, and by the time he can, Dylan’s already half out of his seat, arm high, stabbing at buttons. People turning all around them, conferring with each other, phones coming out in droves.

“Yeah, I don't know,” Dylan says, to some someone. Tyler's trying not to actually absorb any sound at all.

“He's just...” Dylan's hands on him, too tentative, searching. “Something's wrong. I don't know,” he says. He's freaking out. “I don't know, I don't know what's happening. Ty? C'mon, talk to me. Or—or don't, god, just...”

He takes a breath, lets it out. Says, quiet, “What do you need?”

“It's,” Tyler manages, and for a moment that has to be enough. “Headache,” he says, with some effort. “Just a bad...” But it's building, still building somehow. He shuts his mouth hard, tries not to physically exist as much as possible.

“But like,” Dylan says. His fingers on Tyler's wrist like he's tracking a pulse. “Like, a headache headache? Or like a... numbness, or like a, like a really sudden stabbing pain—”

“ _Headache_ ,” Tyler says. Eyes stinging, he's fighting just to breathe.

“Someone'll have Tylenol,” Dylan says, determined, about to rise from his seat again, make some announcement. Tyler's already tensing, preparing to shield his ears.

Dylan's cupping his hands around his mouth.

“D,” Tyler says. Tears in his eyes, he's fighting not to sob. “Please, don't.”

“What,” Dylan says, just barely moving his hands, and Tyler just—gives in. Gives up.

“Migraine,” he says. “It's...” He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “Usually I.” Swallowing, swallowing. “Usually, I _take_...”

He gags on nothing. On hot spinning air, on the back of his own dry throat.

“Yeah?” Dylan asks, already reaching up, feeling for Tyler’s bag in the overhead compartment. digging through it. “Where—”

“Ran out,” Tyler says. Defeated, after all this time. All that work he put into training, and then he messes up in the first real inning.

Tyler cant think, can't stop thinking: Five hour flight. It's a five hour flight, there'll be _hours_ of this. Of finally, finally being exposed, as nothing like Dylan’s fantasy of him at all. _How are you real_ , and Tyler isn't, he's just hiding. Just choking it down, letting Dylan fill in the blanks with all these overblown flattering conclusions.

“We'll get more,” Dylan says. Already gathering his things, Tyler's things in his arms, strapping bags over bags, leaning back slightly against the weight. “We'll get a refill, we'll go private. Or we'll miss it, whatever. C'mon, before we can't.”

“It's a preventative,” Tyler says, when he can speak without fear of sobbing. “It won't... It's too late.”

“Shit,” Dylan says. Sinking back into his seat, looking stricken. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Tyler’s impossibly tense already, just bracing. For what, he doesn't know.

But Dylan’s hands just settle on Tyler's arm, the back of Tyler's neck. Just cool, just steady.

“What helps?” he asks, quiet. Barely a whisper, fingers gentling through Tyler's hair. Tyler curls against Dylan’s hoodie, eyes shut tight, stinging. Dylan’s palm just soothing across his shoulders.

Tyler loves, he _loves_ him.

“Dark,” Tyler says, when he can. “Quiet.”

Dylan builds their combined mess of bags into a steady monument across his thighs. Pulls his pillow from behind him and lays it over the top, lets Tyler just hide his face. A steady hand on his back, fingers threading through his.

“Don't be afraid to squeeze, okay?” Dylan says, low. “Really go for it.” A flash of a grin, even now. Tyler can hear it. “I _want_ you to.”

It settles into something almost manageable, after a while, Tyler breathing out the pain in just little shudders, small sounds. The airline blanket overhead, Dylan's massive headphones. Dylan’s constant touch, soothing, wherever it goes.

But of course there's turbulence, and Tyler barely makes it to the bathroom before he's sick, dry gagging, throat scraped raw. He grabs at the wall for support outside, just leans for a little while, lightheaded and unsteady.

He forgot, forgot how awful it is, choking on your own throat, feeling shaky and hot and cold, tears streaming. Dylan had a whole month of this, longer, all while playing peppy, making jokes. Tyler’s shivering and miserable and angry at his own stupid body for doing this, for getting like this. He can't imagine being witty right now, can't imagine fooling anyone into thinking he's okay, even for a minute. Barely trusts himself to keep upright without a wall as backup.

But Dylan’s already coming up behind him, already reaching out, hugging an arm under Tyler’s, easing him back to their seats. He's got water and a hot towel and the pillow again, everything and everything and then some. Tissues, earplugs, Coke, a warm wet towel. A towel filled with a Ziploc bag filled with ice.

“I Googled,” he says. “And... Mel, the flight attendant.” He half-gestures to her, somewhere past Tyler's line of vision. “She's seen it all.”

“You're,” Tyler says, and near-gags again. The ice helps, kind of numbs it, and the warm towel unlocks his stiff jaw, but he can't talk, not unless he wants to paint the place orange.

“Don't worry about it now,” Dylan says, rubbing his shoulder. “We'll just get through this flight, and find our hotel. Or, whatever. Whatever you need. Just try to... sleep, maybe. If that's even...”

It's not. Tyler's record is a little over two days, and by then he was just about homicidal. It helped, for once, playing the monosyllabic, sunglasses-wearing patron saint of irritation and barely controlled temper. He got one weird look from Posey, that was it. Dylan thought the whole thing was one long, method-acting joke. As much as Tyler ever not being perfect is a joke to him.

“No I didn't,” Dylan says in the hotel. There's weed, it—helps. “I thought—My head, right?” He keeps saying this, tempering all his feelings with this. “I thought you hated me.”

“Why would I,” Tyler starts, and Dylan says, “I didn’t know why. Does there have to be a reason? Or just one.”

“Yes,” Tyler says, frustrated. “I wouldn't hate you for _no reason_.” That came out wrong. “I wouldn't hate you,” he says, softer. “Ever. At all.”

“Yeah, well, I underestimated your kind heart,” Dylan says. He's half-grinning, but it's Tyler's least-favorite kind of joke.

“How do you still not get this,” Tyler says. “I'm in love with you. I'm not _nice_ , I’m not...” He can't think of the name. The, the charity cliché. “Mother Teresa,” he says, eventually. “It's not sympathy, it's not a fucking... _favor_. You're the _best part of my life_.”

“The only part, these days,” Dylan says, and seems more surprised to hear it aloud than Tyler is. “Shit, I didn't...”

“I have a life,” Tyler says. Apparently it needs to be said. “You're a really big part of it,” he agrees. “But... so _what_? I love you,” he says again. “We're writing partners,” he ticks off on his fingers. “We're friends, we're really close. We're making a movie. We're getting _married_.” Dylan looks down at his hands. “Aren't we?”

“What?” Dylan's looking at him, suddenly, he looks stricken. “Of—of _course_ we are.”

“It's just,” and all at once Tyler can't exactly look at him. “Doesn't seem like you're really that happy about it.”

“You get migraines from stress,” Dylan says, after a stifling silence. “Right? And lack of, lack of sleep, or not eating, or or exercising the way your body's used to.”

“I just get them,” Tyler says.

“And you never told me,” Dylan says. “Even... that night, that night in the hospital. I was a moody bitch, and you started crying. Even then, you didn’t tell me.”

“That wasn't,” Tyler tries. Trying to find the connection. “It wasn't relevant.”

“Oooh, _relevant_ ,” Dylan says. “No, yeah. I'm stressing you out to the point of _tears_ , and you're having _nightmares_ about me, and that crappy year, and what I put you through, but sure. It's not _relevant_. That your head fucking _attacks_ you, like on a regular basis, that you're taking over the counter medication trying to deal with it, and we're getting married and this is what I am, this is what I _do_ , I make everything worse. Is that _relevant_ enough for you?”

He's crying.

“No you don't,” Tyler says. A little dumbly, a little paralyzed, and then his mind starts working again, and he manages to take Dylan's hand, to curl enough fingers under his jaw, behind his ear, to tip his forehead against Tyler's shoulder, so the tears hit hot, soak through his skin. “No you don't, you _don't_. Not for me.”

“For everyone,” Dylan says. “My—” A sob breaks out, another. “My _parents..._ ”

“You can't take that on,” Tyler says. “What's going on with them, that's them. That's not something you could've...”

“They were so fucking happy,” Dylan says. “Before me, before... And when I was a kid. Everything started with me.”

“That's not true,” Tyler says. God, god. “He admitted, it wasn't the first time. He admitted that.”

“I kept having panic attacks,” Dylan says. “As a kid, for no reason. He got stressed out, he got...”

“That's not the reason,” Tyler says.

“How the fuck would you know,” Dylan says. “You're perfect. Your family's perfect.”

“You said it yourself,” Tyler says. “You get migraines from stress. But yeah, no, sure. My childhood was a fairytale.”

“Well I don't know,” Dylan says. Pulling back, looking at him. “You never talk about it.”

“Hoechlins don't really _talk_ ,” Tyler says. “Sarcasm, maybe.”

“You're taking my name, then,” Dylan says.

“Yeah?” Tyler says. But it's decided, it's the best decision. “Yeah, definitely.”

“After my serial cheater dad,” Dylan says, he's smirking. That kind of joke again.

“After the love of my life,” Tyler says, barely even blushing hearing himself say it.

“Ew,” Dylan says, making a face. “You and my dad, _ew_.”

“Shut up,” Tyler says, pushing him. Too far, he lands on his back, just lies there like that, grinning up at nothing. Then reaches out, pulling Tyler down on top of him.

“I don't wanna let you down,” Dylan says, really seriously.

“You couldn't,” Tyler says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jsyk in my mind i'm already anticipating the most deadly, soul-killing comment possible, and it's: why wont this thing die already  
> and the answer is: because it's deeply cathartic  
> or maybe just a vampire idk

**Author's Note:**

> no hobriens in this fic resembling actual hobriens are representative of actual hobriens. probably.


End file.
